“I’ll take a woman fishing any day of the week,” grinned Condley. “As long as she makes my lunch and baits my hooks.”

“But you told me your ancestors are from Scotland.” One of the colonel’s greatest fascinations, now that he had come to know his former enemy, was that almost all Americans could trace their ancestry to another country.

They began to cross a puddle on the fairway that was the size of a basketball court, compliments of the earlier rain shower. Condley’s head was baking through his baseball cap and his shoes were thoroughly soaked, but still the colonel plodded on. In the middle of the puddle Condley could see the colonel’s golf ball. “There’s your ball, Colonel. Yes, you’re right. My ancestors were from Scotland and Ireland, mostly.”

Colonel Pham’s face took on a new excitement. “But you see, golf was invented in Scotland. It is their national sport, so you should love it!”

“For some it is.” Condley smiled as they reached the ball. “But for my people golf is a diversion. Fighting is their national sport. It’s our tradition, even in America. We call it ‘the redneck way.’”

“Redneck?” The colonel seemed confused.

“Red. Neck.” Condley pointed to the back of his neck. “It’s our culture. The Scots–Irish in America. Because we work with our hands, the upper classes always looked down on us. They call us rednecks because our necks get red working in the sun. And fighting is our sport. Not golf.”

“Boxing?”

“Not all the time. Sometimes just fighting.” Condley shrugged slyly. “Any kind of fighting. Fighting in a war, fighting in a bar, fighting with your friend, fighting with your boss, fighting with your wife.”

“So you are like the Vietnamese,” said the colonel. “Golf and fighting, very good!” They both laughed. He was standing over his ball now, trying to figure out which club to use. Condley’s comments had amused him greatly. He loved to hear stories about America, and Condley knew that later on he would retell them to his associates, probably with great embellishment.

“So, I think the three iron,” decided Colonel Pham.

“I don’t even know what a three iron is. If it was up to me I’d put that ball in my pocket and walk it all the way to the clubhouse.”

The colonel pulled out a three iron and took a mighty swing. The club splashed in the water just before it hit the ball, taking away the power of the swing, and the ball rolled forward another fifty yards or so. Pham swore under his breath, putting the club back into his golf bag, and marched forward yet again. Following him, Condley secretly checked his watch.

The colonel caught his gesture and smiled. “You are in a hurry?”