When Victor Charlie went to work on the soles of my feet with a bamboo reed after I went down in my F-4 during Linebacker II, the thoughts of Raquel Welch's sweet bosoms kept my mind from devouring itself in madness. That and the sounds in my head of Charles Mingus, Miles Davis and Howlin' Wolf. The other POWs thought I was nuts but two years later I was shaking Westmoreland's hand on the way to a free brunch in the Philippines while they were laid up, legless and crazed at Subic Bay. Whatever gets you through the night. For me that thing is music.
