Some veterans of World War II, some Korea and many more remember Vietnam. I remember the Panamanain riots of 1964.

The Vietnam War was in full fury. In America, students were protesting the war. As a 24-year-old college student, I had to make a choice: sign up for Vietnam or run and hide in California. I finally enlisted.

But instead of being sent to Vietnam, I was assigned to Fort Clayton, Panama, where it rains most of the time, even on Christmas.

Things were like a paradise in many ways until January of 1964. American students, with adult encouragement, on two consecutive days, hoisted the American flag alone in front of their school in the Canal Zone. They refused to fly the Panamanian flag next to ours, as had been agreed.

This was a slap in the face for Panamanian kids. When word of the gesture got out Jan. 9, nearly 200 Panamanian students marched into the Canal Zone with their flag. A struggle ensued, and the Panamanian flag was torn.

Then the adults got into the act.

Meanwhile, I’m at my home off base near Panama City. It was the usual 6 a.m. when I walked several blocks to catch a chiva (bus) to go to work on base. I wore my neatly pressed uniform. Unfortunately, I know nothing about the flag incident nor the riots that resulted.

My first clue that something was wrong was when a couple of Panamanians in a bus threw a bottle at me and said some nasties in Spanish. I ignored the gesture as some locals who didn’t appreciate all the money I spent in their economy.

My second clue came when I noticed a difference at the bus stop; I usually caught a bus to go to work. This time, however, many passengers focused on me. What? Did I forget to put my pants on? Why were they staring? Worse, they all had sticks from the jungles.

My third clue came when I noticed they had no interest in taking a bus anywhere. They were intent on me! I sensed bodily harm. Mine! Why me? After all, I was a chaplain’s assistant, not a lean, mean fighting machine!

I took a left turn on the road to work. I walked faster as they followed. Then a car tried to go through the mob. It was an American trying to get through. They fell upon the car, beat on it and turned it over into the ditch. That was my clue to get the heck out of there!

Soon another car attempted to pass through the mob. It was not stopped. The car came right up to me. A Panamanian who spoke English said flatly: “If you want to live, Gringo (American), you had better get in my car.”

Seeing that I had no choice, I jumped in the back seat. He quickly put a blanket over me. “Keep down! Don’t move or say a word!”

As we proceeded down the road I managed to peek out the side window now and then. Cars were overturned. They were mostly on fire. Dozens of angry people had guns.

Suddenly, we stopped. It was a Panamanian checkpoint. They were looking for Americans. One armed Panamanian talked in Spanish to my driver for a few seconds. Then he poked my blanket with his rifle. I did not breath. The driver told him he was taking some laundry to Fort Clayton for money. The guy believed him and we went on our way. I got back to base alive, thanks to a stranger, an angel who saved my life.

After many happy handshakes, my angel left. I was grateful to be alive. The rioting lasted three days, killing 23 Panamanians and four U.S. Marines. Several hundred persons were injured and more than $2 million in damages resulted. Lots of friends were not as lucky as I.

The troops went on alert. I was assigned guard duty at empty ammo bunkers. They gave me an M-16 rifle but no bullets. They knew me too well. Oh well. I’m alive today because of the kindness of a stranger. I’ll never forget him.

Gerald Button is a free-lance writer who lives in Stetson.