"No Place for a Lady charts Thea Rosenbaum’s turbulent life: from a little girl escaping the Soviet Army with her mother in Berlin, 1945; to becoming Germany’s first woman stock broker at Oppenheimer and Co.; to Germany’s only woman war correspondent in Vietnam. She then embarked on a career as producer for ARD German television in the U.S., where she was White House Pool Producer for foreign correspondents from the late ‘70s to late 2000s. In this capacity, she traveled with five presidents, and was present in Germany for the end of the cold war as the Berlin Wall fell. Her life, as a civilian, correspondent and producer, book ends and charts the greatest conflict of the later half of the 20th century. As she rose in the ranks of a difficult career, she was constantly overcoming her sense of inferiority, ugliness and even stupidity. While becoming a journalist was always something she aspired to, as a young lady she believed she was too stupid to achieve it, and yet she was able to succeed in every facet of the work for five decades. At every point in her historic career she overcame the under-expectations and prejudices of her contemporaries, as well as, and most especially, her own inner weakness and self-deprecation. As to the history she witnessed: she gathered chocolate in the streets of Berlin that the Americans dropped during the Berlin Air Lift. As a West Berliner, she was there the night the barbed wire first went up hardening the East/West divide. Later, and as a journalist, she was in Khe-Sanh in ‘68 when it was the focus of attack by the NVA, until the Tet Offensive began when she reported on the NVA and Vietcong attacks from Nam O, Hue and Saigon. She was the first woman to report from a nuclear submarine. She covered the Carter administration for the Camp David Accords, as well as well as reporting from Cairo when the deal was finalized. No Place for a Lady also reveals many of Thea’s funny, and sometimes not, interactions with America’s greatest journalists."

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

No Place for a Lady

By Thea Rosenbaum

AuthorHouse LLC

Dedication, vii, 
Acknowledgment, ix, 
Introduction, xi, 
Chapter 1 Khe-Sanh, 1, 
Chapter 2 Nam O, 7, 
Chapter 3 Hue, 11, 
Chapter 4 Saigon, 16, 
Chapter 5 Berlin, 21, 
Chapter 6 Berlin, 27, 
Chapter 7 Post War, 32, 
Chapter 8 Kleinmachnow, 37, 
Chapter 9 Opi, 42, 
Chapter 10 Surrogate Family, 46, 
Chapter 11 The West, 53, 
Chapter 12 Oppenheimer & Co., 62, 
Chapter 13 New York to Saigon, 68, 
Chapter 14 War Correspondent, 76, 
Chapter 15 Airborne School, 89, 
Chapter 16 Leaving Saigon the First Time, 102, 
Chapter 17 Count Hasso R�dt von Collenberg, 108, 
Chapter 18 Chicago, 115, 
Chapter 19 Back to Vietnam, 122, 
Chapter 20 Washington D.C., 129, 
Chapter 21 Inauguration, 136, 
Chapter 22 Camp David, 142, 
Chapter 23 Reagan, 149, 
Chapter 24 The Wall, 157, 
Chapter 25 Honduras to Vietnam, 164, 
Chapter 26 Birthdays, 170, 
Epilogue, 177,

CHAPTER 1

Khe-Sanh

I'm headed to Khe-Sanh in the jump seat of a C-130. Three weeks ago we didn't even know this place existed. It was just an out-of-the-way Marine base in the mountains near the North Vietnamese boarder. But since the North Vietnamese Army started to attack the Americans on the night of January the 21st, and landed a big hit, destroying the base's ammo dump, every journalist in Southeast Asia is trying to get here. The powers that be are allowing in only two journalists at a time for three-day clips. I'm lucky enough to be one of them, but I'm apprehensive as well. There's talk that Khe-Sanh will be the location of the largest battle in Vietnam. I'm only comforted because we think the military let a woman in since they were anticipating a lull in hostilities for the upcoming Tet holiday.

It's January 29th, 1968, and I'm glued to a jump seat behind the pilot, looking down on the approaching base. From above it's like a series of linked, reddish mud-bogs. Everything seems covered in dirt, the men included, an impression I confirm a little later. Outside the base are the hills and mountains, which are heavily fought over. From those hilltops, and other locations, the NVA was able to maintain a bombardment of about a thousand rounds per day into Khe-Sanh.

As I'm looking at the base, and wondering what it's like to take such a number of incoming, the pilot turns around and says, "Do you want to take pictures?"

"Of course."

"Sarge, open the hatch so she can lean out!"

He opens the hatch in the roof above me, and before I can think twice, I'm climbing on the jump seat armrest. I put my head out the hatch, using my elbows as tripods to brace myself, and start snapping pictures of the upcoming runway. This is certainly something I've never done before, and my anxious energy changes to excitement.

Now we're on the ground, rolling down the runway, and I'm getting carried away snapping pictures as we move by the base, until the pilot yells: "Thea, didn't you want to get out here?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you better go."

"You haven't stopped."

"We ain't gonna stop, baby. You better jump if you want to go. You better head out the back now."

I pull my gear together along with my Leica camera and run to the back of the cargo area. At the end of the long plane I see men push crates down the ramp, which keeps the base supplied. It's too dangerous to land here. As this thought comes to mind my apprehension returns because if this place is too dangerous for a plane to land, what about me?

I run off the ramp and onto the hard-packed dirt surface and look around as I slow down from running. I can feel their eyes on me from the mountains above. Just a moment ago I was looking down on them. Now I'm sure all eyes are on me—the only blond girl around for miles, and the only one alone in the middle of Khe-Sanh's runway. To add to my sense of comfort, the edge of the strip is littered with planes and helicopters that got hit and were pushed to the side and left there. The feeling I have is not a good one. Walking down the runway I hear the click click sound of incoming. Just a few yards off I see oil drums and throw myself behind them, hitting the ground hard as I land, bending my new lens cap in the process.

I realize this as I snap a picture of one of the strangest things I've seen before. In front of me, there are cows crossing the runway as they flee to save themselves. The fear in their eyes reminds me of something I saw in my childhood. After Soviet troops burned our Berlin apartment, my mother and I escaped the wrecked city to the country where my grandparents kept a cottage. Dead bodies were everywhere, but I remember crying when I saw a group of horses lying together in a ditch among rubble and blood. This was a cost of war rarely reported. You hear of the buildings smashed and burned and of the people dead and wounded, but rarely of the animals killed or the lovely tree, staple of your childhood backyard, shattered by mortars. These are terrible things also. They are part of the mood of war, and seeing the cows scatter with terror in their eyes brought me to the moment when we were also the victims of war.

It wasn't just the cows running from the plane that struck me but the oddity of cows on a military runway at all. I later learned the people in the village of Khe-Sanh, looking for safety, had brought their herds here. And so that's how you get cows on a runway dodging incoming.

But that didn't help my position now, behind oil drums. At the end of the airstrip, the C-130 banked over the trees for its return flight, followed by explosions on the runway. To my left Marines motion to me from the large green sandbag opening that leads to the base. The Marine closest to me is shouting: "Those drums are full of oil! Those drums are full of oil!"

I remember thinking: "Where else was a I supposed to go?" These were the only objects within a reasonable distance that I could have hid behind. Had one of the cows been hit, I suppose that might have served my purpose too. But the men here also just thought I looked funny. And they were right. A journalist scrambling for her life on an open runway was probably funny to some of the Marines under these conditions.

The incoming stops and somebody runs over from the sandbags and takes me inside. He grabs my arm and pulls me. I notice his hands are covered with red clay from where he grabbed me. I'm covered in the clay from diving on the edge of the strip. Everything is covered in it, even the oil drums have red smudges on their sides, and the green sandbag walls show the red streaks, especially down by the ground where the men kick it up. It's evening and it's just starting to get dark, but the red is clearly visible wherever you look.

As we enter the base, the man says: "You could have been killed."

"Well, how else was I supposed to get in?"

He doesn't respond. Who knows what he's thinking. Since it's dark now few Marines know there's a woman here, which may be better for now. The man I'm with takes me to the Marine Captain, whose job is to keep me alive and out of trouble. After a short introduction in the opening to a sandbag enclosure, the Captain walks me to the First Aid Tent. Inside is full of wounded men, mostly there from shrapnel. The ones who take direct fire don't make it here.

When I ask for the bathroom, he points it out to me just across from the First Aid...

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