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As part of a Special Forces team, on October 31, 1972, at 11:30 pm, under the code name Papa Bear^®,  Tony Hasboun parachuted into the North Vietnamese jungle.   He spent  three years there playing a deadly cat and mouse game with the Viet Cong.   

Of the dozens of special forces troopers sent behind enemy lines for long term duty, he is the only one who survived and returned to talk about it.   His memories were so terrible that for over twenty-five years, this story remained buried in his mind.   Only because I am a personal friend of his was I able to bring it to the surface and get him to talk about it.   This is a true Vietnam story I'll guarantee you've never heard before.

When the 60’s came, I wasn’t a green-haired hippie.   I was a real wise-cracking, hard-assed misfit -- a tough guy by choice -- at least at the time, I thought it was by choice.   I walked around being pissed that Mother Nature for short-changing me in the body department.   Because I’m five-foot-four and weigh only 125 pounds, I had an attitude and it certainly wasn’t one of gratitude.   I got onto the wrong side of what passes for law and order so many times that a mother-fucking, government, bureaucrat somewhere put my name on  “The expendable” list.   In other words, I became, in their eyes, a walking dead man.  

At that time I was still unaware of the government policy used to get rid of rife raff.   Instead of putting them in jail, they put them in the military and sent them off to somewhere where they would very likely get killed.   When I got on the “get-rid-of-them” list, the Vietnam war was in full swing, so you can quickly guess where I ended up.  

No!  You guessed wrong.  Not South Vietnam.   Well OK…  you’re half right.   The Vietnam part is right.   The south part is wrong.   As part of a Special Forces team, on October 31, 1972, at 11:30 pm, I parachute into the North Vietnamese jungle.   I spent  three years there playing a deadly cat and mouse game with the Viet Cong.   That’s 937 days.    I was also there 937 nights.   The nights were the worst.  

It was three weeks before it dawned on me that it was Halloween night that I dropped into this hell hole,

Like many Vietnam vets, when the horror was over, I buried my past  ---  at least, I tried to.   For eighteen years I semi-succeeded.   Then one peaceful evening in sunny southern California, my facade came crashing down.   My code name was Papa Bear, and this is my story. 

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As I’m peacefully standing in the theater line, the cool ocean breeze is washing away the heat of the day.   I’m in Torrance, California, a beach community just west of Los Angeles.   I’m talking to my wife, when, from behind me, I hear the words,  “Papa Bear!   Is that you?”  

I freeze in mid sentence and shudder as the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.   I’m instantly hyper alert as the North Vietnam jungle flashes through my mind.   It’s now September 4th, 1990.   It’s been 18 years since I was known as Papa Bear.   I stifle another shiver, swallow, and turn to see who is speaking.  

As I turn, I hear those words again.   “Papa Bear!   Is that you?”   He looks intently at me and adds, “I’d know that voice anywhere.”  

There before me stands a living piece of the past I’ve buried in denial for almost two decades.   A tall, handsome man in his late forties with tears in his eyes is staring at me.   It’s all I can do to hold my composure.   I glance at my wife.   She has a puzzled look on her face.   She knows nothing of my past.   Official military records indicate that I have never been in any branch of the armed services.  

Again I hear,  “Papa Bear, is that you?”    I look up at him and say,  “I’m sorry you must have me confused with someone else.”  

He insistently replies, “Papa Bear, I know it’s you.   I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”  

He is absolutely right, but I dare not acknowledge him.   I do have a rather distance accent to my voice.   I was born in the Middle East.   As the son of a Jordanian diplomat and lived in several countries during my childhood.    Arabic is my native tongue.   I also speak French German and English.   Even after all these years in America, my English still has a distinct Arabic flavor.  

I’m shivering inside, as I see a unique opportunity standing in front of me.   I’m torn between the urge to hug him and the fear of my wife finding out about my past.  

Three times I vehemently deny who I am.   At the third denial, his eyes grow dim and his shoulders droop.   He turns and slowly steps out of my life.   I’m completely torn up inside.   I had prayed that Papa Bear stay buried.   Again, I see that is not to be.   I am no longer just Tony.   I’m Papa Bear as well.   As he turns and slowly walks back to where he was standing in line, he walks with a slight limp in his left leg.   His limp breaks the final barrier between Tony and Papa Bear.   I am absolutely certain he is indeed one of the downed pilots I rescued from a fate worse than death in North Vietnam. 

In less that a minute I find my life has again been turned upside down.   I turn back to my wife.   She is confused, but I confess nothing.   I can pay almost no attention the movie.   That night the cycle of nightmares begins again.   In the middle of the night, I wake up screaming and instinctively lunge at my wife.   She screams.   I stop.    She’s terrified. -- So am I. 

For years, I refused to keep any weapons near me while I slept.   I’ve been afraid that I’d wake up from a nightmare and kill someone before I fully realized that I wasn’t still in the North Vietnamese jungle.  

The following morning, I’m an emotional basket case again.   My wife sees my anguish and asks a lot of questions.   Soon, I can no longer pretend I’m just an ordinary guy, so I confide my secret past to my wife.   She is compassionate, but the experiences I tell her about are completely foreign to the world as she knows it and to the facade of a man she had calls her husband.   She simply cannot relate to my experiences.   For her, I cover my experiences with catsup and rose petals so that the true sounds, smells and sights are blurred.   It doesn’t work.   In less than two months, our relationship is history.  

Now I need to get this story off my chest, so I’m going to tell it like it actually was, without the cover of catch-up or rose petals, so if you want to listen in,  pull up a chair.   Since this is a true story as I actually experienced it, I am assuming that you’ll want to hear the truth.   You do!  Good. 

Then lets start by straightening out this Rambo rubbish you’ve seen in the movies.   Rambo is a fake -- a fucking, bullshit, prom queen.   You stand up like that with bullets flying in your direction and it’s only a mater of time -- usually a minute or less -- before you’re a dead man.   Here’s the truth:   When you’re behind enemy lines and encounter an adversary,  you get in,  you kill,  you get out,  and your gone.   Anything else is media hype designed to sell theater tickets.   And quite frankly,  I don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not you buy a ticket.

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