Then it was time for us to leave the hotel.
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Before each journey we had made till now, my mum had tried to prepare us in the best way she could. This time, she got us all into our basement room and told us to start packing, that were travelling to the land where giant men wear skirts. She hugged and kissed us and told us everything would be all right.
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I was ready for this new expedition as I imagined Scotland to be this magical place. We were about to embark on the most memorable journey of my life. On arrival in Fife, Scotland, we were met half way across the Fifth of Forth bridge by a delegation of Scottish Miners. We swapped cars and were driven by the giant men and women, some of whom were indeed wearing skirts, to Cowdenbeath. We arrived at a house, where a delegation of local people waited for us outside. Scottish bagpipers were playing to welcome us, headed by a rosy-cheeked, blond woman, wearing a tartan kilt -like a real life doll — who handed the keys to the house to my mum.
My mum opened the door and we entered a house that had been completely furnished and prepared for us by local people. They showed us around and sat us down to eat a warm meal which I later found out had been prepared by a Chilean woman who was part of another Chilean family already living in the area. I now know that this house was kitted out by donations, and volunteers who all gave their time and love to make us welcome. I will never forget the smell of the clean sheets, the comfortable bed as I fell asleep that night, feeling really safe for the first time in what seemed like a long time.
Dad first, coach second
We were quickly enrolled in local schools and my parents began to learn English in nearby Edinburgh. Our house was always busy with local visitors who came to see us, offer help or just be nosey. The coal sheds were in the front of the gardens and every time we took coal out to light a fire, the coal was very quickly replaced by an anonymous person. A Mars bar was a very special thing indeed. Why were these uniformed men just giving them away?
This image perfectly shows the seductive and corrupting influence of consumerism on the innocent civilians of Vietnam. This picture was taken by my father, Philip Jones Griffiths, in Vietnam in during the battle for Saigon.
This sprang from a soldierly admiration for their dedication and bravery — qualities difficult to discern in the average government soldier. This particular Viet Cong had fought for three days with his intestines in a cooking bowl strapped onto his stomach. Henri Huet. Henri Huet—AP. Hal Buell, former photography director at the Associated Press, who led their photo operations during the Vietnam War:.
In all wars, the battlefield medic is often the stopgap between life and death.
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AP photographer Henri Huet, under heavy enemy fire, saw that role through his lens and captured the uncommon dedication that medic Thomas Cole displayed in this memorable photo. Cole, himself wounded, peered beneath his bandaged eye to treat the wounds of a fallen Marine. This photo was only one of several Huet made of Cole that were published on the cover and inside pages of LIFE magazine. A year later Huet was seriously wounded and was treated by medics until evacuated.
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In Huet died in a helicopter shot down over Laos. Tim Page. At the same time that Hello Dolly opened at Nha Trang airbase, a company of rd Airborne had walked into an ambush in Viet Cong base zone, known as the Iron Triangle. The dust-offs started coming within 30 minutes. Mostly, I remember carrying a badly wounded grunt whose leg came off and he almost bled out. The shot was made one-handed as we carried him out of the fire cone. Dirck Halstead.
Dirck Halstead—Getty Images. Generally, the photographers who might have shot some of those images have long since bugged out, or have been captured or killed. In mid-April of , a small group of American journalists were invited to fly into the small provincial capital of Xuan Loc, South Vietnam, 35 miles north of Saigon, by commander Le Minh Dao. A siege by a massive North Vietnamese force was about to take place. The helicopter Dao sent to Saigon to pick us up deposited us just outside the town. Neither we, nor General Dao, had expected the tide of advancing communist forces to so quickly and completely surround the town.
General Dao, however, was full of vim and eager for the battle. Slapping a swagger stick along his leg, he quickly loaded the two journalists who had accepted his invitation, myself and UPI reporter Leon Daniel, into a Jeep and barreled into the town. At first, we thought it was deserted. Then slowly, and one by one, South Vietnamese troopers began to stick their heads out of foxholes they had dug in the streets. Dao yelled that they were prepared to fight the enemy, come what may. However, we noted with more than a little trepidation that none of them were budging from their holes as Dao led us down the dusty street.
Suddenly, a mortar shell landed in the dust no more than 10 feet from us. It was followed by a barrage of incoming automatic weapon and artillery rounds. Dao wisely called an end to his press tour. We tore back to a landing zone that we had arrived at less than an hour later. Dao called in a helicopter to evacuate us, but suddenly, the ARVN troops who had been seated alongside the road broke and ran for the incoming helos.
In less time than it takes to tell, the panicked soldiers swarmed into the helicopter, which was to be our only way out.
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Crewmen tried to turn them back, but the helicopter lurched into the air with two soldiers hanging from the skids. At that moment, Leon and I had a sinking feeling that we were going to be part of the fall of Xuan Loc. For us, the war looked like it was about to be over. However, Dao had one more trick up his sleeve, and he called in his personal helicopter behind his headquarters. Joe Galloway. At the moment I hit the button I did not recognize the GI who was dashing across the clearing to load the body of a comrade aboard the waiting Huey helicopter.
Later I realized that I had shot a photo, in the heat of battle, of my childhood friend from the little town of Refugio, Texas. Vince Cantu and I went through school together right to graduation with the Refugio High School Class of — a total of 55 of us. The next time I saw Vince was on that terrible bloody ground in the la Drang.
Each of us was terribly afraid that the other was going to be killed in the next minutes. His bosses read the papers and discovered they had a real hero pushing one of their buses. So they made Vince a Supervisor and all he did from then to retirement was stand in the door with a clipboard checking buses in and out.
Larry Burrows. The fraction of a second captured in most photographs is just that: a snapshot of a moment in time. Sometimes, even in war, that moment can tell a whole story with clarity, but it can be ambiguous too. Purdie was being restrained from turning back to aid his CO.
The scene is as wretched as the other. Purdie, wounded for the third time in the war, was about to be flown to a hospital ship off the Vietnamese coast and leave that country for his last time. The composition of the photograph has been compared to the work of the old masters, but some see it more cinematically: as if you could run a film backwards and forwards to view more of the story.
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Exhibiting museums have found in it Christian iconography. And at least one psychiatrist treating war veterans has used it in his practice. Unknowable then was also the life Purdie would live after his 20 years in the Marine Corps, or how important to him faith would become. David Hume Kennerly. Long-forgotten photographs sometimes leap out at me and I am stunned by certain moments that I documented that were so routine when I made them, but are now infused with new emotion and meaning.
This picture of a haunted-looking young American GI taking refuge under a poncho from monsoon rains in the jungles outside of Da Nang while on patrol in is one of them. Many had that intense blaze of realization when a comrade was suddenly, violently, unexpectedly gone, and marveled at still being left intact. Guy asked Coot to play the song seven times in a row. Guy took wires off their screen door and tried to imitate the sound. Guy dropped out of school, and the family moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where Guy worked on a conveyor belt at a beer factory, at a service station gassing up cars and as a janitor at LSU.
He eventually learned that all those acts were in one place. After the band started playing, Slim entered the club from outside, his Strat hooked up to a foot wire. By then, Guy had started performing in juke joints and roadhouses.