Welcome to the all-new quidnunc Francois deCharette! Francois deCharette intends to be an adventure in counter-revolution, striking at all revolutionaries, whether they call themselves liberals, progressives, communists, fascists, or Jacobins. Named after the French opponent of the Revolution, this quidnunc firmly believes that facts, and when necessary, humor will be the best weapons against revolutionaries of all stripes.
"By late summer of 1973, Day and Guarino and several other commanders, men who were SROs in Hanoi, were upset that no formal action had been taken against the men in the Fink Release Program. The commanders asked for a meeting with General John Flynn and Admiral James Stockdale, the highest-ranking POWs. At the meeting, Day delivered an ultimatum:'If you don't file court-martial charges,we will.' Stockdale replied by filing court-martial charges against Edison Miller and Walter Eugene Wilber, accusing them of mutiny and attempting to cause insubordination. Colonel Ted Guy initiated court-martial proceedings against eight enlisted men who, as the so-called Peace Committee, had--he claimed--openly collaborated with the enemy. He charged them with disobeying the lawful orders of a superior officer, acting in conspiracy with the enemy, and aiding the enemy. In rapid succession, charges were filed against the eleven officers who had accepted early releases. But after Abel Kavanaugh, one of the enlisted men, committed suicide on June 27, all charges against all personnel were ordered dropped. For better or worse, the POWs were all lumped together in the mind of the public, and the White House did not want a series of bitter and highly public courts-martial. Those charged were allowed to quietly leave the service. They returned to their homes in far-flung corners of America, civilians beyond the reach of military justice. Because their experiences remained unknown by the general public, they were revered in their hometowns and in their adopted towns. The POWs would not go public on an issue their superiors clearly wanted closed. But their anger toward the early releases was unabated. Day came up with a solution. He incorporated a group known as the NAM-POWs and was the first president. One of the bylaws, subtle enough to be overlooked by most, said membership was open to those who had served honorably in the prison camps of North Vietnam. 'Served honorably' was the operative phrase. Early releases and members of the Peace Committee--as the controversial enlisted men called themselves--were not eligible for membership. The NAM-POWs, from the moment of their creation, had more moral authority than any other veteran's group in America.(p269-271) But one of the names for the {Florida}panhandle is 'LA'--as in 'Lower Alabama'--and the beaches here and to the east often are referred to as the Redneck Riviera. It was pickup-truck country, predominantly Protestant and then yellow-dog Democrat to the core. Day had never seen or heard of the sort of politics he found in the First District. Democrats held every elective city, county, state, and national job. Bob Sikes, congressman from the First District, was the political boss of the panhandle. He had more seniority in the district than anyone but God and was almost as omnipotent. Sikes called himself the 'He Coon,' because the male raccoon knew where the food was and how to get to the water. Sikes brought in more pork than a meatpacking house, and it seemed that coon tails, signifying the driver's allegiance to Sikes, waved from the antennae of every pickup truck in the First District. When Day and Doris took Steve to register to vote, they told the registrar they wanted to register as Republicans. The reaction they got was about the same as if they had said they wanted to register as Catholics. 'Ain't no use in you all registering as no Republicans because there ain't no Republicans to vote for,' the elderly registrar said. Day was appalled. Because of Nixon and because of the long conversations he and McCain had in jail about politics, he was a committed and devoted Republican. He thought there should be Republican candidates running in every race in the district. Day was then and remains so today a man of elaborate and courtly manners. But he does have his hot buttons. And the registrar had punched one. 'When I need advice on how to register to vote, I'll ask for it,' he said. 'Until then, hand me the paper and I'll register as a Republican.' When he left the registrar's office, he had that same head-up, arm-pumping, determined, and hard-eyed look of defiance that Jack Van Loan had noticed in the yard at the Hanoi Hilton. Turning to Doris, Day said, 'We're going to have to do something about this(p275-76).' In 1976 a CBS producer asked McCain and Day if they would return to Vietnam with Cronkite and be the featured part of a documentary--two of America's best-known POWs doing the reconciliation thing. McCain accepted. Day refused. Then one of Cronkite's staffers called Day, tried to schmooze with him, and asked, 'Wouldn't you like to go back to Vietnam?' Day paused. He had no respect for the man he still referred to as 'Walter Crankcase,' the weak dick who stood up after Tet and said America was losing the war. Then he said, 'Yes, I would. Leading a four-shipper of F-100s carrying wall-to-wall nape.' 'I'm sorry you feel that way.' 'I'm not.' So McCain went to Vietnam with Cronkite and made the documentary(p284-285). In 1979, California governor Jerry Brown appointed Edison Miller, half of the Bob and Ed Show in Hanoi, as a supervisor--county commissioner--in the Third District of Orange County. In 1980, that appointed term was over and Miller had to run for election. More than two hundred former POWs signed a letter that was sent to some hundred thousand voters in the district. The letter said that Miller 'cooperated with the enemy to the detriment of his fellow American prisoners of war' and that he 'wrote articles' for the Communists against the interests of his government. The letter claimed that Miller violated his oath as a military officer, that he disobeyed the lawful orders of his superiors, and that he 'does not have the dedication to duty, to his country, or to a sense of public service which would qualify him for any public office.' The letter ended by calling on voters in the district to reject Miller. They did. He received only 16 percent of the vote and later filed a defamation suit against the POWs. Bud Day was one of several lawyers who represented the POWs on a pro bono basis. The court granted the POWs request for a summary judgment that threw Miller's suit out of court. Miller appealed, but his appeal was tossed out(p294-95).During the 1992 presidential election, Day volunteered again to campaign for President Bush. He did not approve of Bush's campaign techniques, but he would work for the president because Bill Clinton was the Democratic candidate. Years later, on June 12, 2005, Alan Ehrenhalt began a review of The Survivor: Bill Clinton in the White House on the front page of the New York Times Book Review by saying, 'Millions of Americans despise Bill Clinton.' He said Clinton haters believe the former president was 'immature, self-absorbed,' and indecisive; that he lacked discipline and was reluctant to use military force even when needed. Ehrenhalt's review did not begin to plumb the depths of revulsion that military people felt in 1992 (and still feel) toward Bill Clinton. From the time he first appeared on the national stage, Clinton's pouting expression, lip biting, and what they considered to be his inveterate womanizing, noninhaling-dope-smoking behavior made him--and this is not too strong a word--loathed by military people. Everything about 'Slick Willie,' they found repugnant. For Bud Day, Clinton personified not only the self-indulgence and fuzzy thinking of the Democrats but weakness as well. He had no self-discipline, no integrity, no patriotism. He had no principles. He was a man without honor. And he had no military background, which was okay, but--as Robert Patterson described in Dereliction of Duty, he was openly contemptuous of the military, which was not okay. When Clinton won (due in large part to the fact that third-party candidate Ross Perot received 19 percent of the vote), Day believed the republic was in danger. Making things worse had been an attack Day could not help but take personally. Perot's running mate was Admiral James Stockdale. After a stumbling performance during a nationally televised debate, Stockdale was savaged by the media. Day knew that Stockdale was one of the most brilliant men ever to wear a uniform. To have reporters ridicule him widened even further the gap between the military and media. Clinton lifted the economic embargo on Vietnam and appointed Pete Peterson, a former POW, as the first American ambassador to Vietnam. Day thought Vietnam should remain isolated. He could not imagine a former POW being a Democrat, much less taking a job in the Clinton administration. He wrote Peterson a letter in which he all but called the ambassador a traitor. Clearly, Day had the same tightly focused right-or-wrong view of the world that he always had. The single-mindedness that enabled him to be a great leader in Hanoi was still there. It was not always appropriate in the civilian world. In coming years it would sometimes be even less appropriate. He would seem rigid and incapable of forgiveness. About a year after Clinton was elected, Day drove up to Maxwell AFB in Montgomery, where the Air Force operates several schools for young officers. Part of the curriculum includes bringing in distinguished retired officers to talk to the young officers. Day was one of several MOH receipients on a panel that appeared before newly minted graduates of the Squadron Officer School. Doris was sitting in the audience with the brigadier general who was commander of the school. One of the young graduates asked if each of the old warriors would give his opinion of President Clinton. The other officers gave the proper answer: they were loyal to the commander-in-chief, no matter who he might be. Then it was Day's turn, and he said, 'I wouldn't trust that. . .' He paused, unwilling to use the profanity on the tip of his tongue. Then the dam broke. 'I wouldn't trust that son of a bitch as far as I could throw him.' Doris said the base commander went rigid with shock. And it would not be until the base commander was transferred and a new commander appeared that Day would be invited back to Maxwell. In the summer of 1995, Day received in the mail his copy of the Retired Officer Magazine and read a story saying the U.S. government no longer was allowing military retirees over the age of sixty-five into military hospitals. These old retirees were losing their free medical benefits and were being forced into the Medicare program, which meant they would have to pay for part of their medical coverage. Medical care was very much on Day's mind. His physical condition was such that he had been declared 100 percent disabled. Day figured the article was wrong, another media foul-up. By now Day believed his major life's work was over. He had been retired almost two decades. The 20mm ricochet was just a close shave and not a sign that there remained another mission for him. Vietnam was why God had saved him from death so many times. The travel and invitations to speak continued. His children were living proof of the good job Doris had done during Day's almost six years' absence. His law practice was thriving. The awards and honors were and unceasing river. The health problems caused by the Bug were as under control as they would ever be. A few days after Day read the article, he drove out to the hospital at Eglin to pick up a supply of medicine. 'Colonel, I'm sorry. But I can't fill that,' said the pharmacist. 'Why not?' 'This is an active-duty drug.' 'What do you mean?' 'We don't give it to retirees.' 'What's the basis for that?' 'It costs too much. These pills are three dollars each.' Day nodded tightly, spun away, and went looking for the highest-ranking hospital official he could find, the deputy hospital commander, and said, 'I have a real bitch.' 'What is that, Colonel?' When he explained what happened, the deputy commander nodded and said, 'That's a dollar decision. We get allocated so much money, and our job is to take care of the active-duty force.' 'I think your job goes quite a bit further than the active-duty force. We were included in that allocation.' 'Sir, you're going to have to talk to the hospital commander about that.' By now Day had up a full head of steam. Added to his natural combativeness was a sense of outrage and indignation. When he went into the Marine Corps in 1942, the recruiter told him that if he served twenty years, he would have free lifetime medical benefits. He was told the same thing when he joined the Air Force. In the years since he retired, his medical benefits and his medical care had been free. The people affected by this new ruling--and he was one of them--were World War II and Korean-era veterans, what TV anchorman Tom Brokaw would call in his book 'the greatest generation.' More than a million of these men were still alive, and they had been receiving free medical benefits for years. Those benefits were as much a part of military culture as saluting the flag or saying 'sir' to superiors. Day went down the hall, eyes hard and right arm pumping. He found the flight surgeon, a man who had treated him in the past, told him what happened, and said, 'This is a lot of bullshit.' The major agreed. 'I can't believe the government is sniping away at you old guys.' 'Where did this come from?' 'The White House. President Clinton did this.' Day's face hardened(p301-304 American Patriot: The Life and Wars of Colonel Bud Day by Robert Coram)
