The American

To the citizens of Luangprabang, the most conspicuous face of the U.S. was that of a redheaded, freckled Irishman from Larkspur, Calif, named Francis P. Corrigan, 35. It was a face they liked. In four years as the U.S. Information Service's public affairs officer in Luangprabang, Corrigan acquired a working knowledge of the Lao language and a stomach that could take the glutinous rice and fiery red peppers he was served when traveling about the back country. He shot craps with the governor of the province, drank bourbon with Meo tribesmen. One main job was bouncing into small villages by plane, Jeep or muleback to show propaganda films about Communist terrorism. Filmed in Laos, the movies were accompanied by up-to-date versions of the traditional mohlam ballads (a kind of Laotian version of calypso) and were tremendously popular.

Corrigan got a Lao-language daily newspaper started on a Mimeograph machine, built the King a radio station (advancing part of the money for equipment himself), was trying to get a library going. When the fighting started, Corrigan was in the air more than ever, flying leaflet-dropping missions over enemy lines as well as his movie runs. He distrusted the rickety planes he had to ride, once pointed to a battered single-engined Piper Tri-Pacer and advised a newsman: "I wouldn't fly in that for a million dollars." But when Cor igan got ready to deliver movies to the small town of Hong Sa, the Tri-Pacer was the only plane around. Just after takeoff, the engine quit. The plane crashed into a tree, and Corrigan was killed. Last week, when his body was brought back to Luangprabang, more than 1,000 Laotians stood silently by. Buddhist monks said prayers over the coffin, and the governor laid a wreath, saying: "From his Laotian friends, their eternal regrets."

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