Endings and Beginnings

     Every few days we'd get a new resident. Usually a pissed off one brought in by an officer. Once in a while I'd be caught in the middle of a ping pong match of stupidity. Not knowin' which way to turn I'd keep my mouth shut. Sometimes you do what you do 'cause you don't know what to do.
     The 'chest/chess' argument was my favorite. A fortyish Captain brought in a twenty year old prisoner. That the officer was gettin' wrinkles and only had double bars to show for it no doubt carried a story along with it. But there's no way in hell a PFC can ask a Captain what his story is. 'Course I was quick to think the man to be an idiot even though I had no reason to.
     Anyhow the prisoner asked the Captain, "You ever place chess Captain?"
     The Captain says, "Yup, I've played a lot of chest." And gives me a look that says he's just made a funny and it's my job to laugh. But I don't.
     Me, I wondered what the prisoner was leading up to and continued to fill in the blank as to why the officer was only a captain at age forty. And hoped his ability in the field topped his strength as a stand up comedian. But envisioned a long string of Purple Hearts in the platoons and companies of his past.
    The prisoner then repeated his question and the officer replied the same. And again and again. And all I'm now thinking is "C'mon Sarge. Get your ass out here and stop this clown show before I open my trap and say something that'll get my ass in a sling."
     The five months of relative paradise at the stockade passed way too quickly. Another three or so and I'd have been on my way home. But early in the Summer I found myself back in the loving arms of my alcoholic Platoon Sergeant. And he greeted me like I'd been off hiding from my real duty.
   

Merry Christmas - Stockade style

     I came across a picture yesterday. In it I'm standing in the stockade parking lot, lunch bag in hand. In both hands actually. Behind me is the guard shack. Looks pretty much like I remember it. Except for the sign on the shack reading Merry Xmas.  Don't remember that at all. We sure were a festive group. And seein' as how this was a prison, we even had a sense of humor about us. Maybe a little sadistic but that was life in the Army.
     Behind me stands the poinsettia hedge in full bloom. Neat touch. I sure don't look like much to be afraid of. But my boots are shiny. Guess that was my strategy. Baffle 'em with my boots. By the time they figure out that I ain't what I seem, I'll be long gone.

Aside

     I keep bringin' up From Here to Eternity in this blog. There at the stockade, it was an even bigger deal.  The movie all but ignored the quarter of the novel set in the stockade. Didn't bring up Prewitt spendin' time there. Didn't mention Maggio escapin'. Didn't dwell on all the sadistic beatings given by Fatso Judson. Most of all, didn't bring up Jack Malloy.
     Malloy was a long time prisoner. A bucker of the tide. He'd been a Wobbly like my old man, an organizer and, in the stockade he was the rock that Fatso had to keep bangin' his head against. The stockade was an entire section of the novel. A major moment where Prewitt found the hardheads, the freedom seekers, the free thinkers, the total idiots. Some smart, some dumb as the rocks they broke with sledge hammers.
     The movie, like the novel, was made in the '50s. McCarthy, Red Menace, Cold War. Yup, when it came to discussin' human rights the times sucked. And there I sat in '69 and '70 in the guard shack by the front gate. And aware as could be that most of the men on the inside didn't belong there. Bad luck that they couldn't or didn't want to avoid the draft. Bad luck that they'd gone to Vietnam. Bad luck that they'd been caught with an illegal substance while in uniform. Yeah, they were screw ups or they wouldn't have been on the inside.
     Can't say that the above has any meaning at all. But, one way or the other, that's the way a part of life was back then. Still is today. Shit happens, maybe randomly, maybe not. You give it your best shot and hope the cards line up right. Some people end up in the stockade, some as the man who puts them there. In the long run, most often there's not a lot of difference between the two.
     I was lucky or I wouldn't be sittin' here peckin' away at a laptop. For every one of me there's a dozen people in Bangladesh lookin' for a meal. Or standin' on the corner of 46th and Hiawatha holdin' a cardboard sign with the hopes of scorin' a buck from a passing car.
     The world's a strange place filled with strange people. Hope you can figure it out 'cause I sure can't.

Tower Guards

    There weren't but four of them. One tower at each corner and me coverin' the gate. For all practical purposes the guard job consisted of stayin' awake. Sounded simple but they weren't allowed reading material or music. Time passed slowly up in the towers. Standin', starin', countin' the minutes 'til lunch or dinner.  Seriously, it was ugly duty not suited to many people.
     One man loved it. 'Course he usually smuggled a short wave radio up there with him. Had some way of hidin' it so long as he was warned if anyone was headin' his way. That was my job.
     He'd spend his hours listenin' to music from Australia. Had any of the prisoners wanted to climb the fences and worm through the barbed wire atop each, our man would no doubt have not seen a thing.
     Then on his way back from lunch, tell me in minute detail 'bout everything he'd heard. Some of which he'd made up to add a little spice. He was a perfect man for the Army. Happy doin' nothin'. Passin' the time in the never ending repetition of crap he'd heard or done a thousand times before.
     Sometimes I suspect that's why we went to war. Time passed a lot more interestingly when your next step might be your last. Vietnam, Iraq probably both times, all wars resultin' from boredom? The Military sometimes seems just like a huntin' dog when his master grabs the shotgun and puts on his field jacket,
     "Oh boy! Oh boy! We gonna go out and kill ourselves somethin'. Let's go! Let's go! Oh yeah!"
     Or something to that effect.
     That's all well and good but there's a point to my rememberin' the man. Simply put, I failed him. He was up in the tower on one of the nights Super Seven paid us a visit. I was a little slow recognizin' the sound of his Mercury Monterey, just as slow ringin' the inside, then first two towers each hit the snooze button. By the time I was done with them, Seven was out and about. Should I ring up the last tower it woulda been my ass in the slinger. In the dead quiet of the Hawaiian night a ringin' phone coulda been heard all the way to Molokai. And the man was 'sposed to be awake anyhow. So it was his slumberin' butt that got caught. And relieved of the duty he liked. That kinda duty's hard to find in the Army. Bye-bye tower, hello infantry, again.
     By that I mean he was sent back to his regular unit. There was no such thing as a trained tower guard at the Schofield stockade. They were sent to us from the infantry companies. Mighta been a punishment for all I knew.
     There's intelligent men and then there's real intelligent men. We needed a new tower guard. The one we got had in Vietnam with me. Don't remember his name. But I do remember he was from Florida and had been Bravo Six's RTO. So we were radio buddies from a half year in the past.
     One of the non-coms gave him the lowdown about his duties. Take a shotgun, head up in a tower and sit there ever vigilant and awake. No books, magazines, radio, playin' cards and don't even think of man handlin' yourself as it sets a bad example for the prisoners. He looked at me, then the tower and then the shotgun. And thought of spending the next month doin' absolutely nothin' for eight or twelve hours a day.
     So he heads off with the non-com and was shown how to work the tower like he hadn't already got that figured out. The non-com headed back to his cup of coffee inside the fence. For a half hour peace reigned supreme over the land.
     The blast sure got my attention, as it did all the boys with stripes. It was like all hell broke loose as they came runnin' out the gate and headed right for the tower where the new man was. Seemed he'd blown a hole through the tower roof with his government issue, stripped down twelve gauge.
     Let me tell you he was one lucky man. I knew for a fact not a one of those guns had been cleaned since I'd been there. And maybe for years before that. A look in the breech of one was like seein' an ocean beach after a storm. Sand, sticks, glops of unidentified animal parts and detritus from nations far away. So ugly there way no way I was gonna clean one without threat of jail time. Pullin' the trigger was an invitation to disaster. But he took his chances.
     Super Seven led the reemin'. They bitched him up and down, threatened him with every punishment they could think of. And all our hero did was play dumb, near to tears and swear it was an accident. A classic case of tactical stupidity. My kinda guy indeed.
     So they sent him on his way. Back to his unit. As he passed the guard shack surrounded by the non-coms, he gave be a brief glance and a wink. Sometimes you just gotta do what you just gotta do. Even if it's claimin' you're an idiot when you're the smartest man on the scene.
   

The Boys, Inside and Out

     Buck Owens. No not that Buck Owens, the one I'm talkin' about's the man who worked the gate when I was off. First off, Buck wasn't his real name. That was Roy. But, you see, Roy wasn't his real name either, just the one he admitted to. About the time I left the stockade he told me what his real one was in the strictest secrecy. It might be forty-two years later but I sure as hell won't go back on my word. Let's just say it was a humdinger. Unless even that wasn't it. And I don't want to think beyond that level. That'd be like poppin' open Pandora's box. Might release all the evil names some kids were been stuck with by unthinking parents since the beginning of time.
     Buck was a big time Buck Owens fan. Yeah, that one, the country boy twanger from California. So we probably woulda called Roy, Buck, even if he didn't call himself that. He also liked Elvis and Charley Pride. Like that matters a whole lot. But it does peg him as a country-western fan of the first order.
     Buck hailed from Florida. Musta picked him a fair share of oranges in his early years 'cause he brought those days up now and then. Taught me the proper way to pop one open. Worked fine but left me sticky fingered.
     Since both of us worked the same job we faced the same problems. One of which was passin' time on the midnight shift. When we were doin' six days on, three off, the late night hours were a terror. Our shifts always rotated, three days 6am to 6pm, then the reverse. Tired all the time but never so tired as around 3am.
     Durin' those early mornin' hours the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade. All because of Super Seven. We called him that even though his graying hair said the over achievin' days were in his past and he wasn't so super anymore. The seven part was his rank, Sergeant First Class, E-7. Seven was either out to make us one strack stockade or at least have the satisfaction of bustin' someone's ass.
     I only saw Super Seven when he passed through the gate. During the day it was nothin' but a howdy and a snappin' open of the gate lock.
     Gotta sidetrack again. The main gate was locked with a two pound Yale padlock. At minute one on day one each of us gate guards were told that lock had to be opened one handed with no fiddlin' with the key tryin' to fit it in. 'Sposed to be a one handed stab with a twisting motion. Slam it in and pop it open. Like stabbin' someone in the gut and turnin' the knife for good luck (how's that for a prison analogy?). Make the dude passin' through think we knew what the hell we were doin'. So we practiced and oiled the Yale daily.
     Night time was another story. Super Seven either couldn't sleep or his old lady kicked him outta bed on a regular basis. So around 2:30am or so, he'd come flyin' down the road, side drift into the parking lot and head for the gate all hell bent for leather. Anyone caught sleepin' was a goner. Especially the gate guard. He had to make the whole routine seem like everything was peachy keen normal.
     You see, there was this doorbell button under the guard's desk inside the little gate shack. Everyone knew it was there, even Seven. It was a warning bell that could be pushed unseen. So when I knew for sure it was Seven barrelin' down the road, it was my job to hit that thing machinegun like. Then after Seven passed through the gate and before he made it to the office, phone the towers to make sure they were awake. I know that doesn't sound all that military but that's just the way she was. In general, Army life on Oahu was a game, the idea bein' no one gets hurt. Or smokes dope for that matter. Or if they did, don't get caught.
     And damned fine practice Seven's middle of the night dash was. Should some maniac with a pistol grip, sawed off shotgun come barrelin' down the road with the aim of bustin' his buddy outta stir, we'd be ready. 'Course soon as that gun came out, I'd be gone like a flash.
     So the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade, the first domino. He goes down, the whole house follows. Maybe. So me and Buck had to find ways to stay awake at night when the hours stretched out.
     My plan involved reading novels about people who were on the left side of crazy. Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and On the Road. Could be argued that both were about sane people in a crazy world. But somehow, that doesn't seem to hold much water. Truth be known, at three in the morning sittin' in a stockade's guard shack I wasn't much sure which side was which.
     Buck got into disassembling and reassembling a .45 caliber pistol. Out in the guard shack we had a small armory of weapons locked up. None went inside the fence. Nobody the prisoners could lay their hands on sported a fire arm. Only boys with guns sat up in the towers with bare minimum 12 gauge shotguns loaded with double ought buck. We also had a bunch of .45s. Buck worked 'em all. Even cleaned 'em so he could break 'em down and build 'em up faster.
     When he got his time under twenty-five seconds he took to blindfoldin' himself so as to put some sport back in the game. Even that paled when he could feel his way under a half minute. What he did after that I don't recall.
     Buck, like me, was a PFC. He'd ended up at Schofield 'cause he'd gotten bored with MP life in Germany and volunteered for Vietnam. Wasn't there long enough to move up the ladder. Not many MPs were killed in the Nam so there weren't many holes to fill. At Schofield he was stuck as a PFC just like me. Schofield had more than its quota of Spec. 4s. If you were a PFC, you stayed one. Maybe even to this day.
     Buck had been in the Army better than a year more than me. And had been a PFC longer than anyone in the Army. No shit. 'Bout the time I mustered out, the Division Commander held a ceremony for Buck. Made him a Command PFC. Gave him a set of PFC stripes with a wreath encircled star in the middle, kinda like a Command Sergeant Major. It was great fun but Buck didn't get a nickel more in his paycheck.
     And that mattered. Buck was always lookin' to borrow a little dust come mid-month. Not sure what he spent it all on. But when you're livin' in Hawaii and only makin' a hundred, thirty-three bucks a month, well, that ain't a lot of dust.
     Born and raised on country-western and Baptist religion, it didn't take but one hit of weed to open the man's eyes to peace, love and freedom. Also rock and roll. Even Peter, Paul and Mary. Buck was goin' through a change in life when I last saw him. Good man.
    Then after a couple of months, who should show up as the new First Sergeant but Davy Heath? Had marchin' orders to turn the stockade into a progressive model for the new Army. For him that meant interacting with the inmates. On Saturdays he'd come in to play a little basketball with the bad boys.
     The inmates loved it. Gave them a chance to take out their frustrations on the cadre. Only problem was Davy was a big man. Not fat, just power lifter big. He gave tit for tat, only his tit was quite a bit more than their tat. Davy hammered 'em big time. Respect for authority was taught on the stockade court at the end of an elbow. All in good fun of course.
     Once Sergeant Heath showed up life was even better at the stockade. And he never said a word about my stripes changin' from Spec-4 to PFC. Good man.

                                             

The Planner

     Call him Bob. Mostly 'cause that was his name. Had a last name too. I even remember it. But like Moses that's about as far as I'll take it.
     Bob had an interesting occupation before the president sent him the letter. Stole Porsches in California. San Francisco area as I recall. Havin' to find a niche in a general occupational field was necessary, even back in the dark ages of the '60s. 'Course California was pushin' the envelope as usual. Sounded to me like it was a good job. Good 'til the police found him in a car that belonged to someone else.
     So the judge gave him the choice of where he wanted to spend the next two years. Becomin' Bubba's lover had no appeal so Bob became one of Uncle's finest.
     But, you see, Bob had himself a plan that was real zen like. A third path. One of those lessons in life. When faced with takin' one side of the fork or the other, there's usually a third way. Sometimes you've gotta wait a bit. Give it some time and you'll see it. It's there. Just hard to see is all.
     Don't know how he did the research but Bob came to know that if he was to ever find himself in a stockade, the one at Schofield was the cream of the crop. Anyhow that's what he told me he did and I wasn't one to question the honesty of a car thief.
     Bob shows up for induction knowin' if he goes through with the regular routine, his purloinin' ass is on the fast track to grunt land. So he walks out the door as soon as he can. AWOL. Then works his way to Hawaii and turns himself in to the Schofield Provost Marshall. 'Course he's convicted and ends up in the stockade. Right where he wanted to be in the first place.
    Bob, he's a peaceable sort. Doesn't cause a fuss and works his way up to Honor Prisoner. That's the other end of the stick from solitary. Yeah, Bob was a good boy. Honor Prisoners could actually walk out of the stockade during the evenings to take classes on the base. You see the Schofield Stockade was an experiment in progressive incarceration. One groovy jail.
     Don't know if he actually made it to classes. In one of our conversations he told me he was bangin' some Lieutenant's wife. Maybe that was part of the progressive rehabilitation plan. Also sported a mustache that was a droopin' four inch monstrosity that woulda never passed any inspection had he not been in the stockade.
      Also, Bob, like most of the other prisoners, didn't let bein' in jail cut into his dope smokin' time. Seemed like it wasn't much of a problem for a bag of weed to be tossed over the fence in a discrete spot after the sun went down. Yeah, all the hidin' spots were searched. Dope found. Hands slapped. But more kept findin' its way in. Life in the Schofield Stockade sure didn't sound like the Army all those WWII vets described back when I was a kid.

Moses Was His Christian Name

     Back in Vietnam all of us new MP's to be were taught how to frisk a man. Not an easy thing to to. Runnin' your hands up and down another man's body wasn't something we, or most any red blooded American 1960s male, took to easily. But we giggled, did what we were shown, then ran around punchin' each other in the arm and discussin' which cologne fragrance went best with the color of our eyes. Mostly we figured it was something we'd never have to do again.
     Bein' gate guard at the stockade taught me to feel no shame. On a typical duty day, a work crew of twenty or so prisoners passed in and out of the gate twice. Morning and afternoon. It was the gate guard's job to frisk each and every one of their young supple bodies four times each day. Don't think I could do that anymore.
     A proper frisk ain't that pat job usually seen in the movies. It's a double hand rubbin' over the whole body. Call it a personal invasion of the first order. But us guards did it and didn't think anything of it. Even ignored the razzin' we got from the prisoners. All we had to say was, "Better I be on the outside giving you a feelin' than the other way around."
     Not a lot of real bad boys in this stockade. Some were honor prisoners from LBJ, that's the Long Binh Jail over in Vietnam. I suspect they were in the stockade for the same reason the prisoners from Hawaii were, dope smokers who got caught. Smokin' the devil's weed ran rampant at Schofield. Not among the lifers mind you, they stuck to Jim Beam and brew. On the other hand, draftees seemed drawn to pot tryin' with the idea of makin' a bad time in their lives a little bit happier.
     Kinda odd how Vietnam backfired on America. A few hundred thousand cleaned up American boys were recruited by mail to head overseas and help keep the free world free. A whole lot of 'em came back mentally and physically messed up, also with a taste for grass. Helped create a big market for Mexican and Columbian dope growers. If there was drug testing back in '69 and '70, half of Schofield woulda been in the stockade. But there wasn't, so we only had around ninety inmates.
     Story had it there were two types of soldiers in Schofield, those in the stockade and those who hadn't yet been caught. As a whole, the prisoners were harmless. Life as a prison guard was pretty easy. No real worry of gettin' your ass whipped by some hard core maniac.
   

Life at the Stockade

     Back in Vietnam all of us new MP's to be were taught how to frisk a man. Not an easy thing to to. Runnin' your hands up and down another man's body wasn't something we, or most any red blooded American 1960s male, took to easily. But we giggled, did what we were shown, then ran around punchin' each other in the arm and discussin' which cologne fragrance went best with the color of our eyes. Mostly we figured it was something we'd never have to do again.
     Bein' gate guard at the stockade taught me to feel no shame. On a typical duty day, a work crew of twenty or so prisoners passed in and out of the gate twice. Morning and afternoon. It was the gate guard's job to frisk each and every one of their young supple bodies four times each day. Don't think I could do that anymore.
     A proper frisk ain't that pat job usually seen in the movies. It's a double hand rubbin' over the whole body. Call it a personal invasion of the first order. But us guards did it and didn't think anything of it. Even ignored the razzin' we got from the prisoners. All we had to say was, "Better I be on the outside giving you a feelin' than the other way around."
     Not a lot of real bad boys in this stockade. Some were honor prisoners from LBJ, that's the Long Binh Jail over in Vietnam. I suspect they were in the stockade for the same reason the prisoners from Hawaii were, dope smokers who got caught. Smokin' the devil's weed ran rampant at Schofield. Not among the lifers mind you, they stuck to Jim Beam and brew. On the other hand, draftees seemed drawn to pot tryin' with the idea of makin' a bad time in their lives a little bit happier.
     Kinda odd how Vietnam backfired on America. A few hundred thousand cleaned up American boys were recruited by mail to head overseas and help keep the free world free. A whole lot of 'em came back mentally and physically messed up, also with a taste for grass. Helped create a big market for Mexican and Columbian dope growers. If there was drug testing back in '69 and '70, half of Schofield woulda been in the stockade. But there wasn't, so we only had around ninety inmates.
     Story had it there were two types of soldiers in Schofield, those in the stockade and those who hadn't yet been caught. As a whole, the prisoners were harmless. Life as a prison guard was pretty easy. No real worry of gettin' your ass whipped by some hard core maniac.
   

Transfered Again

     Nigh onto two months with the MP's my day of glory arrived. Never ever figured I'd end up at the most famous stockade I'd ever read about, at least not workin' on the outside. But there I was at the one and only Schofield Barracks Stockade. If you've seen From Here to Eternity, you know the story. Frank Sinatra as Angelo Maggio is marched up to the First Sergeant's desk, that bein' the one with Ernest Borgnine as Fatso Judson sittin' behind. Fatso picks up his night stick, we called them batons, and doesn't say a word. You know for sure Angelo is in a world of hurt.
     The novel's somewhat different, a whole section devoted to life in the stockade. A lot of spoutin' about freedom and human rights and time in the hole. But the movie was made only a few years after the war and Hollywood didn't want to piss off the Army, so all the stockade scenes were left out.
     Now I didn't know squat about bein' a prison guard. And the cadre knew I didn't know squat so they stuck me on the outside as main gate guard. That was fine with me. The few times I was on the inside, I was fillin' in for someone on a lunch break. Bein' on the wrong side of that double chain link fence with the barb wire on top gave me the heebie-jeebies. The less time on inside the happier I was.
     No ifs, ands or buts about it, work at the stockade was the best I had in the Army. Had a good friend, that bein' Thomas C. Smith as opposed to either Thomas A. or Thomas E., all three were in Bravo Company back in the Nam, who was a lifeguard at the Shafter pool. Don't know how that came about. Maybe 'cause he was a surfer from California. You came from California back then and it was generally assumed you were on the swim team somewhere. He also lived in a tiny stilt house up near Rocky Point on the North Shore. Yeah, That North Shore, the one with Sunset Beach and Waimea Bay. Gotta admit, his time in the Army while in Hawaii was about as good as it got.
     You wouldn't think work in a jail, especially a military one, would be all that special. But we worked regular hours. Just like a civilian job. When we were pullin' twelve hour shifts it was six days on and three days off. Eight hour shifts turned to nine on and three off. When we were off, we were off. Simple as that. No one messed with our time off.
     Since I was the gate guard my duty consisted of frisking work details as they passed in and out, issuing weapons, no frills shotguns loaded with double ought buckshot, to the tower guards, and lettin' those with the right of entry, enter. More on the special duties later.

More Changes

     Duty with the field boys mostly involved bein' loaned out. Why I ended up at Fort DeRussy on Waikiki beach the very first weekend was and is a mystery. Like gettin' hand-me-downs from your cousin in the big city.
     I could see workin' for the Schofield MPs but DeRussy was run by Fort Shafter down near Honolulu and was the R and R center for married soldiers. That is if their wives would still talk to them. Yeah there are a whole lot of military bases on Oahu. Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. Hawaii runs on tourists and guys with short hair.
     Simple duty. I'm dressed up in my fancy duds. Ribbons on chest, white gloves and and .45 caliber pistol on my hip. Don't know why I had the gun seein' as how I didn't know what I was doin' and wouldn't have pulled the gun out for any reason I could think of. Hah! Lucky for me all I had to do was stand in the PX's lot, look official and direct the shoppers to open parking spots. Easy duty.
     There was only one no-no concerning where a car could be parked. Don't even frickin' think about pullin' into the spot marked No Parking. That seemed to be no problem at all. Seein' as how it was a Saturday, everyone was understandin' and in a good mood. Well, nearly everyone.
     Unless some Navy Chief Petty Officer whose ego was bein' drivin' by a drink too many and a car full of visitors he was out to impress, happened to show up. Total asshole.
     At least I was smart enough to not make a big deal of refusing to let him park in the forbidden spot. I said he couldn't. And he said he could. Went around two or three orbits with no change in the weather. So he finally tells me to f*** myself and parks where he shouldn't. Goes in with his guests.
     I saunter over to my truck and its radio. Call the Desk Sergeant and he sends the Man down. I hold the car 'til he shows up. All I wanted out of the situation was for the day to be over and my ass not in a sling.
     When the Chief came out I figured he knew the wind had changed. And proceeded to let the Lieutenant know how much I've abused his innocent butt. The three of us headed up to the Provost Marshall's Office at Shafter. I was still sweatin' bullets.
     Once there I said my piece. Officially let 'em know the actual truth. And the Man said I could go and not to worry. When I left, the Chief was startin' to look a little concerned. Me, I was a happy camper.

Big Changes

     And it came to pass... wait a second, that's way too biblical. Well, to me it was almost biblical. Less than a week after buying the car I showed up at Schofield to find orders waitin' on me. Good orders. Save the day, my ass is out of the infantry, orders. Don't really know how or why but I was transferred to the MPs.
     Back in Vietnam a whole platoon of us were transferred and trained as MPs. At Schofield only one of us ended up as a cop. The reason mighta been my shiny boots when I showed up for duty roundin' up AWOLs in Dong Tam. Mighta been my luck in the inspection. Mighta been Davy Heath. Mighta been a total crap shoot, luck of the draw kinda thing. An enlisted man never gets to find out those answers any more than why he was born left or right handed. Actually we all know the truth behind that. When a baby first scratches its butt, the hand he/she uses be the one. Forever and ever. Amen.
     Not a one of those things passed through my mind when I skipped out the door. Didn't even head to the supply room and grab my second duffel stuffed with Vietnam outfits. Who needed that kinda crap anyhow? No more bein' confined to the Company area one week each month. No more pointless war games.
     Took a couple days before I came to realize my new Platoon Sergeant was always pissed off at the world. Mostly 'cause he was always hung over. The Lieutenant who ran the show never seemed to be around so it was us EMs bein' told what to do by a small pack of cadre who couldn't make it in the real world of Military Police. You see, we were a field MP outfit. Mostly our duty was directing traffic during the war games and bein' loaned out to the real MPs for stuff they didn't much want to do. I'll get to what that was later.
     But no matter, the crap we had to put up with as field MPs, the duty was a whole lot better than bein' a grunt.
     Each day of the workweek I got to drive through Honolulu, up the valley between the Ko'olaus and the Wainais and had the Pacific Ocean in the rearview mirror. Out of the side window I watched the sugar cane turn into pineapple as I went uphill. Not bad for a flatlander who did most everything wrong since he entered the Army. All the while in the back of my brain there was this little voice. Been haunting me one way or the other for forty-three years. Keeps tellin' me how lucky I was. Supposed to have been in the 101st Airborne not in Hawaii.
     There's this image of Death, you know, the guy with the boney fingers and scythe, he's checkin' his list one day and comes upon my name. S'pose to be checked off way back when. But, you see, it was the late 60s, and the man in black was stoned out of his gourd through most of March '69 and part of April. Didn't get me to the plane on time. Yeah, he worked his fleshless ass off tryin' to catch up with his cadaver makin' but was in such a hurry he missed me completely. Ol' Death, he's smart enough to not make a big deal out of the screwup. After all he's only Death, not some big shot god. Could get his ass in a wringer with the big boys. So he kept his mouth shut.
     So there I am, drivin' uphill in the land of the pineapple, smokin' a cigarette and listenin' to Creedence on the radio. The gettin' there was a good ride 'cause the gettin' back to the little apartment made it all worthwhile. The in-between, not so hot.
     It was with the field MPs that I honed my skills of tactical incompetence. Got 'er done when asked or ordered but not too fast or with anything approaching skill. Make the NCOs pay in frustration. Most of all I tried not to be seen. Like standin' in front of a rhino. They don't see good, so if you don't move they're not sure if you're still there.  They know you were there but ain't so sure you still are. Then their little brain bags the whole affair and forgets the whole matter.
     A lot like workin' for a twenty year Staff Sergeant. One rocker after two decades meant he's never gonna get the second one. Frustration, depression, and finally resignation that he's not goin' anywhere. At least anywhere where the liquor costs more.

Life on Oahu

     Didn't ever think I'd write that title back in the early years of my life. But then, I'm a little like Winnie the Pooh who was a bear of little brain. Also have to say that the reason I don't write all that often has to do with my fishing blog which doesn't spend a lot of time on fishin'. Little brain again. Not able to do two things at once.
     Don't remember for sure whether it was the first or second night that Lois noticed the little critters. But she did. Bein' like Winnie the Pooh I kinda hoped they were little pink pigs and they'd be my friend. But they weren't and didn't seem all that friendly. Neither of us had ever seen cockroaches before seein' as how we were from the northland. Guess we have 'em here. But bein' from frugal stock, both our growin' up thermostats never got set much higher than sixty in wintertime. Roaches seem to like it warm all year around. Like in Hawaii. In paradise they come free with the admission price.
     So we sat there and stared at 'em. And they stared back. Guess they weren't used to white people. Besides the roaches, we shared our apartment building with a variety of Asian people. A lot of people lived in that tiny building. Doubt any of 'em had less money than us. Also doubt they could scrape up enough cash to live across the canal in Waikiki. But she was mostly a quiet, respectful place to live. Our first home together. We were very happy.
     It's a funny thing about roaches that they're tolerable. Hard to like, but tolerable. They also get you to buy a variety of products that are supposed to kill them. Most don't. And the ones that really do cause genetic defects or at least cancer. Neither of which were to be taken seriously by a couple of people in their early twenties like the two of us.
     Ridin' the bus to Schofield sucked. An hour each way. Add that to a twelve hour duty day and we didn't have much time together. So, a car was first in line of things to buy. Came even before a mattress. By the way, at first our furniture consisted of a small portable TV, bed linens and a box. Yup, that was it. It was us, the floor and the roaches.
     Shoppin' on foot for a car in a city of three hundred thousand was something I hadn't given enough thought. That's an understatement. Feet just don't move far and fast enough. Don't remember why but I knew the general whereabouts of a few dealers. They didn't seem all that far away. Turned out they weren't but more than three miles as the seagull flies.
     The first few didn't have squat in our price range. Finally one did. And it was a Buick, a small Buick. Six years old and looked older. Figurin' beauty was only skin deep I took a fancy to it. Also there was the matter of Ward and Wally Cleaver. You know, the Cleavers of Leave It to Beaver. Seemed Wally wanted to buy a car from Lumpy. It looked pretty, went vroom vroom and even had oversized dice hangin' from the rear view mirror. Ward, Wally's dad, looked it over and said something to the effect of, "Whatta you got, your head up your ass or something? The car's a total pile of shit."
     So they go off car shoppin'. Find an old beater that looks to be ready for the crusher. Ward checks it over. Turns out it's as mechanically sound as the American dollar back in 1958. Wally buys the car for a song and lives happily ever after.
     So that's what I'm thinkin' as I look at the Buick. Didn't look near as bad as Wally's pride and joy. But I knew in my heart of hearts it was still a gem. Shoulda listened to what was below that heart that was jumpin' up and down yellin', "It's Lumpy's car! It's Lumpy's car!"
     But I was all hot to be done with car buyin' and figured the Buick would last us. After all, how many miles could you put on a car in ten months when it's only ninety miles around the whole island? Answer was nearly twenty thousand. But I didn't have a clue, eh.
     So I walked home and got Lois. No way was I gonna buy anything without her approval.
     We returned. Kicked tires. She was skeptical even though Lois came from a Buick family.
     In the meantime someone had traded in a Ford Falcon convertible. Same age. Less miles. Needed a brake job and woulda cost a hundred fifty bucks more. And it was a stick. Lois didn't as yet drive a stick. The man said they'd do a brake job on the car and it'd be ready in a day or two. Oh me, oh my.
     Can't say for sure what made up my mind. Lois was leanin' toward the Ford. I bought the Buick. Probably shoulda bought the Ford.
     Over the months the Buick slowly fell apart. Tires, starter, battery. She liked to over heat. But mostly it ran. Got me to work and us to the beach. 'Til the last coupla months. But that's a story I'll get to when the time comes.

then Gets Foot Stuck in It

     We were a Company of men in a goin' on pass mood. Me too. I hitched a ride with a coupla former 9th Division sergeants and headed down to the airport.
     Step back a moment or two here. Lois wasn't supposed to happen in my life. Love between us just wasn't in the cards. Or so I thought. One day about a year and a half before meetin' her at the Honolulu International Airport, I woke up outta my twenty-one year fog and found myself head over heals. Turned out she felt the same way. I won't and can't say much more than that.
     I will say Lois wrote me nearly every day throughout the eleven months we were apart (there's a thought for you. In love for a year and a half with most of it spent apart. Guess those war days got in the way of a lot of things).  It'd be the truth to say that I lived for mail call. That and not sproutin' holes through vital body parts. And readin' those letters over and over; my favorite form of literature. Now she was gettin' off a plane in a strange city out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean not knowin' what to expect.
     We'd talked on the phone a coupla days earlier. Lois said she'd cut her hair. Shorter made more sense in the hot humid tropics. I understood. Or at least thought I did. Some form of fuzzy picture musta formed in my head of what to expect.
     Now you gotta understand, the two of us have disagreed from that day forward about what I said when I first saw her. And in my defense I was a little out of sorts 'cause of the inspection, lack of money, my Article 15 bust to PFC and havin' to take a bus to Schofield that I'd have to catch somewhere in the city, exactly where I had no idea. Not to mention bein' a screwed up in the head Vietnam vet.
     So as Lois recalls it my first words were, "What the hell happened to your hair?" And that's on top of not havin' a lei to put on her shoulders 'cause I never thought of it, a fact she's never mentioned. Looked like my thoughts toward the future ended at gettin' a ride to the airport and didn't start up again 'til I headed back to duty come Monday mornin'. You might say I was mostly thinkin' of myself. Not yet into thinkin' as part of a couple.
     Like I said, the words she recalled me sayin' at the airport might not be the ones I actually said. But they probably were.

Mouth Saves the Day...

     Now that we had a place to stay Lois began to get her ducks in order so they could swim to Hawaii, while she flew. Me, I continued to play soldier. And learned the new bad news. That each company in the Battalion was on call one week each month. That meant bein' confined to post. Even if you lived off post. Life as a peace side grunt seemed to always find a new way to suck.
     Toppin' that off was our upcoming yearly inspection, the Big One. The one that called for the total miseries should we flunk it. If we didn't pass this inspection there wouldn't be enough vaseline on Oahu to ease the rippin', tearin' and bleedin' us enlisted men would suffer. But, you see, I didn't know nothin' about that. To me an inspection was what you went through every Saturday mornin' in Basic Trainin'. You got your shit in order, the Captain walked through pissin' and moanin', then we had the rest of the weekend off. No sweat.
      Good that I me had a new friend. A friend with three stripes. A Hawaiian sergeant who took a likin' to me 'cause I had new jungle fatigues direct from Vietnam and was willin' to share.
     The night before the inspection he suggested that I get a haircut. That rankled me a bit seein' as how hair was a big deal back then. I was peacock proud 'cause mine was long enough to comb and part. Not exactly hippie length but you took what you could get. But I saw the logic of his suggestion. Hair wasn't everything. So I trotted across the quad to the local hair remover. Had the man take some off the sides. Trotted back.
      My man took a look and asked if I'd gotten a haircut. Course I said I did, mostly 'cause I'd paid my buck and a quarter and my hat fit looser.
      He looked me in the eye, said, "No doubt you know best. But think of it this way. Your wife flyin' in tomorrow (and she was). We flunk the inspection, you're not gonna be there when she lands. How you feel then? Better yet, how she feel?"
     I trotted back across the quad. And the man doesn't even charge me for the extra twelve seconds of removal. Came back buzzed to the nubs.
     So I've gotta tell the truth, I more or less wrote the following a few years ago. But she doesn't need a lot of bendin' to make it sound right:

     Next day came the inspection itself. What went on in the squad bay fits into my own little conspiracy theory. Not up there with the grassy knoll or the CIA doin' in Marilyn Monroe 'cause she knew too much. But it affected me in a personal way and that's way more important in my book. 
     Before the ogres came in spittin' fire, all my gear was double and triple checked by myself and my squad leader. All the buttons were buttoned, all was strack. Comin' into the squad bay after the inspection a pile of my uniforms were torn from their hangers and dumped on my bunk. Like they'd been improperly displayed. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe not, but I figured some higher up in the company wanted my ass in a slinger for bein' AWOL. And, if we flunked, the finger would be pointed at me and others like me. Lois would show up at the airport and there'd be no me. Just a singing telegram I'd send her: 
          
          "You're here and I'm not. Send flowers to the stockade. 
            I'd be there if I could but I've been arrested I'm afraid."
     
     While the demons were in the squad bay all of us shakin' in our boots GI's were out on the lanai standin' the personal inspection. We stood sweatin', at attention in our cleanest, starched so they could stand on their own, dress khakis. Bullet straight rows, weapons in hand. A team of Majors - yeah they used Majors 'cause they were an in between rank and had nothin' to do during the day except sober up from the last night's fun at the Officer's Club - went down the ranks, inspectin' each man and weapon for cleanliness, sufficient lube in one and lack of it in the other.
     One at a time each GI stood knee deep in his own personal hell as His High Rankliness eyeballed him top to bottom. Then asked questions concerning duties, weapon serial number and chain of command. Chain of command was the toughie. A GI had to know each of the monkeys on the tree from president on down to squad leader. Guess that was in case the Secretary of Defense should stop by one day and have him a cold one at the beer garden, we'd know enough to call out, "Hey Mel, what's happenin'?" I was sixth in line.
     We'd all drilled on the chain. Knew it top to bottom. First man blew his answer. Oh me. As did the second, third, fourth and fifth. Up shit creek and we ain't found the pole yet.
     Then it's my turn. I snapped to, cracked the barrel of the M-49 in my hands, gave the chamber a glance and handed it over. The Man saw my CIB and asked my role in Vietnam. This time I was smart enough to not to say I was a student. Said I'd been an RTO, "A radioman sir." Inside I was a mess. Like the curse was takin' over my soul. Bye-bye Lois.
     He asked me the serial number of the weapon and I started to reel it off. Then halted, knowin' I'm screwin' the pooch. On my hip hung the grenadier's regulation .45 caliber pistol. And I'm reelin' off its serial number. A moment's pause and I said, "Excuse me sir I'm givin' you the serial number of my pistol by mistake." Then fired off the correct number.
     He paused a moment then asked me no less than a half dozen members of the chain. I nailed 'em. The Man then leaned forward and softly said, "Thank you." Then pulled out a pad and wrote down my name. No shit. I speak the truth. He finished the squad by inspecting each weapon but asked no more questions.

     The inspection over, we hung around smokin' cigarettes and excretin' bricks. We knew we hadn't broken any records. All we wanted was a passin' score. Be done with the misery for a year. Yeah, we passed. Word said it was by a cut hair. Now I ain't sayin' this is true but had I blown my answers we'd have been goin' nowhere without scrub buckets for a long time. No one said anything about what happened. No one knew anything about me and the Major. But his simple 'thank you' meant a lot. Maybe even came up in the meetin' among the mucky-mucks.

     

Like Bein' Grounded - Irony Completed

     Two weeks to fill in before I could find us a place to live. Most married troops would normally live in on-base housing. But Schofield was filled up. Even sergeants were livin' off base. As for a new PFC like me, I was lucky they let me stay married. Oh well, at least I had a good excuse for not lookin' on base.
     A normal trainin' day went something like this: Get up around six. Stand formation. Clean the place up. Chow. Go out and practice bein' soldiers. This last part was a hard one to take. Most of us had been in combat and knew what real soldierin' was all about. Playin' soldier was hard to take seriously.
     One day our company took part in some silly assed war game. Seein' as how there were no real bullets involved and that the bad boys were really on our side, the group I was with laid back in the sun and took it easy. A while later some guys with brass on their shoulders came along and told us were were all dead. I looked around. We sure didn't look dead. And I knew what dead looked and smelled like. No sir, no dead here. That's when it dawned on me this was a whole new ball game. And about as real.
     Back from the field we'd have lunch then we do some fatigue. More cleanin'. Kept the quad buildings sparkly in case Hollywood wanted to shoot another movie there. Idle hands bein' the devil's workshop was more to the point. Yeah, the Army sure had it in for the devil.
     After fatigue it was an hour or two of organized grabass. Softball or knitting classes. By then it was near to five and time for chow again. Finally it was private time. Go to town, read a book, see a movie, get drunk. Unless you were confined to quarters and on extra duty. Then it was time to clean for another couple of hours. 'Cause of my screw up, this PFC's day ran from six a.m. to eight p.m. No complaints, I'd asked for it.
     Here's where irony came to visit once again. Like I said, the Hawaii National Guard was still activated. And at least one of 'em was a screw up just like me. Incompetence loves company. Don't remember the man's name but he was pullin' two weeks extra duty. Whatever he did he musta done it at the same time I did 'cause our time synchronized just like we were in the military.
     On our passes between latrine and dayroom, mops in hand, we'd got to talkin' a number of times. He learned I was married and needin' a place to stay. Near the end of our two weeks he asked if I'd be interested in lookin' at an apartment. I said I sure was. Well, he was engaged and his fiancé needed to bail out of her lease but didn't want to pay the extra month's rent penalty and also lose her damage deposit. He was wonderin' if I'd like to drive down to the city come when our after class detention was up and check the place out. I mighta hesitated a quarter second before sayin' I was his man. Takin' over the lease would be my pleasure if it was affordable. Turned out it was only an efficiency apartment and eighty-five bucks a month.
     Eighty-five bucks? Holy crap that was even cheap by Minnesota standards. In Honolulu efficiencies were upwards of two hundred per. You bet I was excited. I was ready to sign on the dotted line sight unseen.
     So, come Sunday, the two of us headed down into Honolulu. Now, I don't know about you but Honolulu was one of those cities you read and knew about as a kid but didn't ever expect to spend any time in, much less live there. Good thing the man knew where he was goin' 'cause I wasn't payin' attention at all. My head was just rubber neckin' around lookin' at all the strange things.
     There was mountains and ocean, pineapples and sugar cane, people knee deep in water workin' on their gardenin'. That was weird. Little houses everywhere and not a one of 'em looked like it was American. Low pitched and pointy eaved. Palm trees and flowers I'd never seen before. People drivin' on the freeway like they'd just got off the boat from Asian rice paddies and didn't have time to wash their feet. Honkin' and weavin', no regard for a decent speed. Thirty mph on the freeway and blockin' traffic like the whole world was their papaya.
      Then, way too soon, we were in a little concrete block, apartment building ghetto. Now I didn't know it was a poor neighborhood back then. It was mostly clean and the sun was shinin'.  Everything looks better in the sunlight at eighty degrees with mountains in the background and the ocean a half mile away in what smells like a garden. Plus the building we drove up to was a two story, board sided affair with a fresh paint job. Clean lot and flowers bloomin' in little neatly trimmed grassy areas. The flowers were bird of paradise and plumeria but I sure as hell didn't know that back then.
     The apartment was on the second floor and tiny. By tiny I mean real short from front to back and side to side. If it had been a troop in the Nam it woulda had about six minutes left in country, that's how short it was. Twelve foot wide, maybe twenty deep. And chopped up into three rooms. Livin' area, bath and kitchen. Linoleum on the floors. Kitchen table was a wide board hinged on the wall so it could be raised and propped up by a couple of fold out legs. But she was clean and, did I already say this, eighty five bucks a month. A ten second walk through was enough. Lois and I had ourselves a place to live.
      Then the man took me out to a buffet brunch in Waikiki which was two minutes away, up and over the Ala Wai canal. Imagine that. We were gonna live in a ghetto within sight of the most famous island vacation spot on the planet. Enough to make a newly wed's head spin.
     What struck me most was he was treatin' me to brunch 'cause I was doin' him a favor. Him doin' me a favor? This was a Godsend for me and Lois. As to the size of the place I recently saw a travelogue on livin' in Hong Kong. Seems most Asians live in tiny places. That's  probably why they're generally smaller than us corn fed yankee doodlers, not enough room to stretch out in.
     Bein' busted cost me eighty bucks a month. Bein' confined to quarters saved me and Lois at least a hundred fifteen a month and found us a place to live. The other on the way to Vietnam AWOL got me out of country seven months early and stationed in Hawaii. Go figure. Every time I did the wrong thing it turned out to be the right thing. This sure ain't a fair world.
   

Irony Strikes Again - The Setup

     Midnight had come and gone by the time I'd signed in. Three days late. Been there before back at Oakland Army Base and it'd worked out. Why not now? But I sure as hell doubted the coming morning was gonna be my friend.
     'Course it wasn't. Made it to and through the mornin' formation in the hope no one would much care that I'd been gone a tad too long. My brain tends to work along that line. Like in the scheme of things I don't much matter and that it was no skin off the Army's ass I'd showed up a half week late. I was there, what more could they want?
     That feelin' lasted just long enough for my platoon sergeant to let me know the Company Commander wanted to talk with me about something. Maybe let me know how proud he was to have a Vietnam vet in his company.
     There's this scene in From Here to Eternity when Captain Holmes has his opening chat with Private (ex-sergeant) Prewitt. I learned a lot from Prewitt. Mostly in a negative sense. Learned that opening your mouth to explain yourself to The Man will definitely get your ass in a sling. The Man doesn't care about you in the least unless that carin' will move his career along. Havin' me on his morning report for three days was no doubt a problem for the man. Reflected on his ability to lead, inspire espirit d'corps and all that happy shit. Just how he was gonna deal with me I was quick to learn.
     Our Company Commander was a Captain. Step up from the last time I was AWOL. Then it was only a Lieutenant who gave me the bad news.
     I knocked, walked in, snapped to attention, fired a salute and said it be me who was there. Right off the Man said I wasn't alone in causing him misery. Most every 9th Division troop who'd gone on leave had come back late. And because of that he had a serious case of the royal ass. The others he'd let slide but I was the straw. And it was my honor to be made an example of. Said it'd make his day if I could've been tarred and feathered or at least court martialed. Three days late and the court would for sure give me 30 days in the stockade. But that'd look bad on his record and shine a light on all the AWOLs. What kinda leader of men would that make him look like?
     So I got my second Article 15. Just like the one on my way to Nam. Only this time The Man could go the full distance. Suspension of a week's pay, two weeks confinement to the Company area, two weeks extra duty and a bust to PFC. The bust hurt. That was a loss of eighty bucks a month. And tough money times ahead for Lois and I.
     He asked me if I had anything to say. Maybe if I told him I'd gotten married it might have made a difference. More likely it would have only given him the chance to say something about duty and the responsibility of being a married man. No matter what I might have said he'd have thrown it back in my face and tried to shame me with it. I seriously wasn't up for that kind of fatherly shit. Especially from a man only a couple of years older than me. So I said nothing. Sucked it up with a sharp, "No sir!" We saluted and I went back to happy land, none the wiser, not upset. I'd known what I was asking for goin' three days AWOL. So be it.

The Wedding

     You've gotta remember this whole thing was planned and set up in five weeks. Nowadays it takes that long to figure out the wedding invitations. Lois and I picked up most of the wedding costs 'cause that was the easiest way. Take my word for that. No big sit down meal, no limo, Lois made the bridesmaid's dresses and her own. It was sandwiches in the church basement and an after reception at Lois' folks' house. That's just the way she had to be.
     Nearly all of my friends, the one's I'd have asked to stand up for me, were in the services. Vietnam, Germany, the Philippines and on shipboard. Hell, there was a war goin' on. So it was my brother as best man, probably woulda had him up there anyhow, a friend and one of Lois' cousins.
     Night wedding. Eight o'clock. Had to be. Lois was a hairdresser and had a lot of friends in the field. The wedding was on a Saturday and not a one of 'em woulda been able to get the day off or cut out early. Actually I believe Lois always leaned towards a candlelight ceremony form the time she was a little girl and she got one.
     We wrote our own vows and told the priest and minister we'd have 'em memorized and wouldn't need any prompts or cue cards. Yup, we sure were cocksure about that. And probably wouldn't have had a problem if we'd taken the time to actually read what we wrote. Something about forever and ever as I recall.
     So the big moment arrived as it inevitably had to seein' as how I'm writin' about it. All went well until Lois and her Dad came strollin' down the aisle and my brain kinda went blank. Not that I didn't want to be there, more like my brain decided to head outside for a cigarette. Turned out Lois' did also.
     Time passed quickly and before you knew it, it was lifetime commitment time. Words and rings. The Minister and Priest first looked at me like it was my turn. I looked back like I had no idea why we were even there. Then it dawned on me I was supposed to say something. What that was way beyond me. Luckily they had the presence of mind to have a copy of what we were supposed to say and dragged the words out of me one at a time. It was like I'd never heard them before. I kept sayin' things like, "Are you sure?" and "Did I write that?"
     We've got the whole thing on tape but neither of us have never had the guts to listen to it.
     Lois, maybe tryin' to make me feel better, did the same. That she was clueless just like me was really vow enough. Our blank minds were made for each other.
     We slipped the rings on each others fingers. They were matching yellow gold bands with pillow shaped, pieced-in jade. No diamond, no engagement ring. There's reasons for the lack of both but I ain't gonna bring them up. Now or ever. The wedding bands come back again in this story in a kinda interestin' way. At least to me. Let's just say what happened to them is kinda ironic.
     And so it went. Reception, after reception, groom stolen. No one around to steal the bride I guess. Too late for the bars to be open and when we ran out of cigarettes it was time to head back. Not too eventful I 'spose.
     Since we were headin' to Oahu to live, most people would call that honeymoon enough. As it was, our honeymoon was drivin' to the east side of Wisconsin to visit with Lois' grandma. Took us two days to get there. Mollie (nearly forty years later I ended up with a granddaughter named Mollie) lived alone in a house big enough for a crowd and had been a crowd back a few decades. It was there Lois learned I was AWOL. Oops, I sure had a red face. Next morning we headed back to Minneapolis.
     On day two in AWOL Land I packed up my duffel plus a couple of boxes of household stuff 'cause we were fixin' to live on Oahu. Where exactly that'd be was anybody's goes. I sure had no idea. Hawaii was almost a foreign land and I had no real way of gettin' anywhere except by taxi, foot or bus. She was gonna be a challenge to say the least. But then I was not one to worry much about what the future might hold or I wouldn't have been AWOL.
     The dude at the ticket counter gave me crap about bein' AWOL. But he sold me a ticket anyhow maybe 'cause he was there at the counter and not over in Vietnam gettin' his ass shot off like I'd been. More likely, he broke down 'cause I'd dropped to the floor, got in the fetal position and started to cry. Not real manly but it worked.
     Whoopee! There I was on the way to paradise in a plane with champagne punch enough for two hundred. Only there wasn't but a dozen of us aboard on that late afternoon flight. Sure coulda got wasted had I not been so bummed out. It was there on the plane the weight of my screw up sank in. I was in a world of hurt without any idea how I was gonna pull the whole thing off. My ass in a wringer with the Army, more stuff aboard than I could carry, havin' to find a place to live in a city I'd never been in and then findin' a car with not a lot of money in the bank. This sure wasn't Kansas anymore Toto.

And I Thought the Army was Bad - Leave III

     Lois did most of the legwork as far as the wedding was concerned. Puttin' one together in a couple of weeks was a challenge even back then. Mostly I helped with the legwork that she couldn't do 'cause, unlike me, she was still workin'.
     'Course there was one big hurdle we had to jump if we wanted to make everyone happy. See, she was a Baptist and I was a Catholic. Same basic take on God but it was never really clear as to which side was goin' to hell. Depended on which you were talkin' to.
     Luck for us this was the '60s. Free love, cheap weed and ecumenical weddings. Hip young priests with sideburns and guitar masses.  Ministers in red suits with plaid collars. Everything was beautiful and the mass in English. Groovy, peace and love. So we figured, at least I did, that we could come up with something that combined both sides and wasn't too freaky. I could already see the headline in the Star and Tribune's Saturday Faith section:

           Flower Child Baptist Weds Marginal Catholic Paddy Pounder -
                      everyone cheers, no one goes to hell.

     A moment's thought mighta got me thinkin' otherwise. If everything was righteous and groovy, how come we still had our asses over in the Nam? Seemed like more was goin' on than met the eye. Ain't that always the way she goes. Some fools dyin' and others makin' a buck out of it. Most people just goin' about their business. Nixon, don't get me wrong, Nixon was never a favorite of mine, called them The Great Silent Majority. They ain't flashy, don't make the headlines but they're the ones who erode the channels and then build the bridges. So the headlines and lead articles said the ecumenical movement was hot but mostly the truth proved otherwise.
     One way or the other I had me the job of findin' a priest and a minister out to buck the system. That meant a little face to face with the dude in black at my home parish. Square one.
     I knew the parish priest well. I'd been his go to altar boy back when I was in high school. Yup, I'd been an altar boy. And a damned good one too. Father Minton liked me 'cause I could handle the job by myself. Saved him an extra phone call on Saturday. Back then I took my religion seriously and knew I had good cause to fear eternal damnation. The whole business of bein' that close to God up there on the other side of the fence in church made me nervous. But I never said no and did a great job fakin' I was a good Catholic.
     Right off the bat at the rectory I ran smack into the unexpected. While I was off to the war, Father Minton had up and left for another parish. In his stead was a dour, middle aged man who didn't know me from Adam. Took one look in my eyes and immediately had me pegged as a marginal Catholic lookin' for favors from mother church. And he, by God, wasn't in the mood for bein' a nice guy.
     I think it was the word ecumenical that slammed the door. No, he wasn't havin' nothin' to do with those shenanigans. And didn't have a clue as to any man of the cloth who might. Start doin' stuff like that and who knew where it might lead. Next thing ya knew perfectly fine, holy priests would be accused of shaggin' altar boys.  At least he knew where the door was and suggested I not let it hit me on the way out.
     Lois came to the rescue in a second hand fashion. She, unlike me, actually went to church. While I was in Vietnam she was a regular at Judson Baptist. There she'd pray fervently that living with her parents wouldn't drive her crazy.
     Her minister before I went to the Nam was a Reverend Fowler. She liked him a lot. Even got me to write him. Don't remember exactly how it went but the gist no doubt went something like this:

Dear Rev. Fowler,
     Gettings from the Nam. It's a real shit hole here. Even smells like one. Way too fertile for me. We spend our days lookin' for Gooks (that's what we call them alright) to kill. But mostly prayin' they won't find us first. You see, we really do pray here. All in all, a dull day is a good day.
     Have been shot at, booby trapped, blood sucked in countless ways, ring wormed, paddy footed, been ball deep in mud, had my life threatened by a short guy with a complex, shit my brains out for weeks on end, told by a pissed off First Sergeant that I ain't paid to think and had an unidentified fungus circumnavigate my right arm. Flew in helicopters to places we didn't want to go. Same goes for the tin cans on the river. Mostly we walk. All in all it could be worse. So how's by you?
     Sincerely,
     Uncle's Fool

     But kinda like Father Minton, Reverend Fowler had flown the coop. In his place was one of the new, hip breed of ministers whose idea of a good time would be standin' up tall at an ecumenical service. Bringin' the faiths together 'cause we were all children of the same righteous God. And he even knew of a priest who was also on the same page over on the other side of the tracks where the Indians lived (we still called them Indians back then. I've heard tell they call themselves that to this day but we white guys don't). I was up for that. So long as the man was a card carryin' priest and able to stand upright on the evening of October 4th, he was our man.
     And he was. More or less. Yup, he'd be happy to do a multi-faith service so long as no animals were sacrificed or wine glasses stomped. It was all fun and giggles for a couple of minutes 'til he pulled out The Contract.
     What the hell was that all about? Seemed the church had no problem with me marryin' a Baptist so long as we raised our children as Catholics. And signed a legal lookin' document to that effect. That was a little too Faustian for me. On the upside the pen would be filled with ink, not my blood. So I did what any Vietnam vet woulda done, blew my stack, stood right up and was headin' for the door when the man called me back.
     Said, "Don't think so much as it be sayin' Catholic as it be meanin' Christian." And smiled a soft, nervous kinda smile.
     Whether Catholic or Christian it was all the same to me. But havin' a few seconds to calm down and mull it over made me realize the contract had no meanin' whatsoever with God. No more than sellin' indulgences. On the other hand, maybe I shoulda read the fine print. Who knows what kinda weird crap mighta been there? Somethin' about what side of the fence I'm gotta be standin' on at the last Judgement. About a guy with a red beanie wavin' a piece of paper sayin' as how I got to get over with the teeth gnashers and hair pullers. Potential bummer.
     So I signed on the dotted line. Here's the kicker. Not long afterwards the priest renounced his vows. Left the priesthood. Guess in his own way we thought a little bit alike. But none of that mattered at the moment. We had our men and would have smilin' people on both sides of the aisle.

On Leave II

     Though it was way past a respectable bedtime in the Heartland, that being 10:30, Lois decided we should go on a parade and wake up my family at each of their houses so as to welcome home the lucky bastard who made it back six and half months early. Don't know if they appreciated having a couple of idiots banging on their doors after midnight on a work night. I know for sure I wouldn't. The last stop was at my Mom's house.

     Lois' apartment days were a thing of the past. She'd moved into her folks basement to save some money for our early married days. Or to buy herself a Buick GS 400 should I bite the big one. Kind of a win-win situation before its time. So it was, "hello mom, is my bed made?," time until October 4th. And off to sleep at hour forty. 

     My good fortune at leaving Vietnam continues to this day. Yeah, I have bad attitude but don't own a trunk full of automatic assault weapons and I'm not living in the street. Only had a minor drug problem that wasn't that hard to sluff off without a trip to some thirty day semi-psycho ward. Combat vets don't seem to have a strong rate of physical or mental survival. I'm not any different than most vets. Just lucky my time was cut short.

On Leave I

     Back before we'd pulled out of Vietnam I'd brought my dress khaki pants to the local Vietnamese tailor to get them made stylish. Back in '69 that meant tapering them to the ankle in stovepipe fashion. Not too cool looking in the scheme of things but better than pants on the ground or white belt, white shoes and plaid jacket. Come to think of it, young fashion tends to lean towards Ringling Brothers. Back in Vietnam I'd tried on a set and they fit fine. I believe I wore that set on the flight to Hawaii. Should've checked them both.

     Come the stroke of midnight on leave day one, Bobby and I headed down to the office to sign out and not to miss a minute of what we had coming. Ten minutes earlier I'd discovered my second pair of pants weren't mine. Two inches too small in the waist and three inches short of shoe top. Way too stylish for the Army. Oh me, oh my. I wore them anyhow 'cause the other pair was dirty and crumpled up in the bottom of my duffle bag. By the time we reached the office my feet were going numb, as were my testicles. Yup, I was heading home more a numb nuts than a hero.

     This was back in the days before the internet. No e-tickets waiting to be had by a swipe of plastic. Just show up at the airport and get in the ticket line. One of the perks of being in the military back then, the other being able to crap in a room full of men who didn't much care one way or the other, was flying standby and rising to be first pecker in the pecking order should there be any open seats. And there were always open seats.

     Don't rightly remember but I must have been paid somewhere along the line before flight time. In the Nam I'd had nearly all of my pay put in a military savings account. They were paying ten percent. A heckuva rate back then. As a grunt, my needs were simple. Thanks to c-ration cigarettes and the Company fund, beer and smokes came to under five bucks a month. Food was free and worth every penny. But there's no way I'd have had enough cash to buy a ticket unless we were back to stateside payday which, as a Spec. 4, was about two hundred and fourteen bucks a month. 

     The plan at the airport was simple. Sit down and don't cross my legs and cover them black socks for six hours. 'Specially should an officer come pass by. There's no way I was going to let some gook shop screw up get my ass in a sling just 'cause I looked like a clown. 

     Amazing all the places a soldier's ass could end up. In a sling, a wringer, a bind, up shit creek. Good reason to keep your ass in a safe place. 'Specially when it was being given a snuggie by a pair of britches.

     I bought a book to pass the time. I believe it was The Hobbit. Over the hours I read and reread the opening paragraph a dozen or more times and had no clue what the words meant. Guess I had other things on my mind. Still have the book. Still haven't read it.

     A couple of times me and Bobby wandered over to check out the USO room. Seems like every time there's a war on, airports have USO rooms for the troops to pass the time. Inside they have all kinds of stuff to help a lonely GI not miss home too much. I got no farther than the mountain of Playboys stacked up on a table. Didn't need to read a word and I still got the gist out of the three page foldouts. Truth was, even that proved boring. War does funny things to a man. Not appreciating fine air brushed photos of young American womanhood shot from every conceivable angle wasn't something I'd ever have expected to happen. But it did. Maybe reality is better than fantasy.
     Bobby could've flown a half dozen ways to get to the Carolinas but chose connecting through Minneapolis. After running around Vietnam with Lois' name on my helmet I suppose he wanted to see what she looked like. Whatever the reason I was glad for the company.
     Sleep in the Honolulu airport had been impossible. By the time the two of us landed in Minneapolis it'd been about thirty-five hours since either of us had any sleep. Lois was there to greet us. Bubbly as all get out. I was like the walking dead. Guess that balanced us out just right.
     Should've spent more time with Woolworth but, what the hell, in a month we'd have plenty of time together. Didn't work out that way. Bobby never made it back to Schofield. As near as I can figure he was smart enough to go see his family doctor. No doubt it took the man less time to make up his mind about what to do than to count all the stitches in Bobby's legs. Two grenades had done the nasties to him. On the other hand they were his ticket out of the Army. Doubt the Army liked that but to hell with them. They got way more than their ounce of flesh out of Mr. Woolworth.
     Sometimes you don't know when an ordinary goodbye is a final goodbye. I believe he was the next to last member of Bravo Company I saw. He, Papa-san and Weasel were the men who mattered most to me. Haven't seen a one of them since.

Gruntland Redux

     Truly I expected nothing else. Bottom of the scrap heap was right up my Army alley and felt right at home. Actually I gave it no thought. All I was thinking was home on leave and being assigned to any kind of outfit was a step in the right direction. Gathered up my two duffle bags, my personnel files and hopped in the truck.
     Once there I grabbed my duffels, thanked the driver and reported in. It was there I realized my personnel files had flown the coop. Didn't know whether I left them in the truck or dropped them on the street. Or the fickled hand of Irony whisked them away. Oh well. So I did the only honorable thing and lied that they'd been lost in some kind of Army snafu back in Vietnam. That the Army screwed up was as believable a lie as possible. If they showed up later my plan was to play dumb.
     Playing dumb was a military skill of the first order. Used to call it tactical stupidity. I was just an E-4 enlisted man grunt. In a shooting army that's about the dumbest thing you could be. So a slack jaw and vacant stare was not only accepted, it was expected. Yeah, I was kind of proud about being smart enough to play dumb at the drop of a hat.
     My duffle of jungle gear was stored in the supply room. The other I dragged into my squad bay, stowed the uniforms and gear and was home. Shit. Call it the 5th of September.
     Next day who should come hobbling in but Bobby Woolworth. Felt like old home week even though it was only the two of us. Didn't have a clue who the hell the rest of the men were. Each time I scoped out someone new I checked to see if they had a CIB on their uniform. Especially the non-coms. 'Course I didn't wear one myself unless in dress khakis. Kinda funny how the brain works and how arrogant someone like me can be. A person could get his ass in a wringer with an attitude like I carried on my shoulder.
     Right off the bat both Bobby and I put in for the full thirty day leave. He got his. I got twenty-seven. That was a minor problem. When the orders came down I quickly called Lois so she could set a date for the wedding. What I didn't tell her was the leave was a tad shorter than expected. No problem. We settled on October 4th. That put it on day twenty-four of my leave. Didn't leave much time for a honeymoon. The plan was to not worry about the time till it was gone.

Killin' Time

     Us pretend MPs moved into a temporary squad bay and did what soldiers do best. We waited to be told what to do. In the group sat future grunts, cops and a whole passle of National Guard. The Guardsmen were waiting to be deactivated. My best friends were mostly in that group and not at all unhappy about their futures. Wouldn't be long till they were waking up in their own beds.
     Not sure what part of the Army all the rest of us were in. Seemed like we'd become part of the Hawaii National Guard, part of what was called USARHAW. That's Army lingo for Pineapple Army, which was GI lingo for being at Schofield back in the '30s.
     Now, what I like to recall as the truth, though it probably wasn't, but the thought gives me the tinglies, is that for a month or two we were all part of one of the most famous groups in WWII, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The name was plastered up on one of the post's gates so it got me dreaming. The 442nd was made up of Japanese American volunteers from Hawaii, Nisei to be exact. They were the most decorated group in the big war or any war for that matter. Rescued a battalion of Texans who were surrounded during the Battle of the Bulge. That was the battle where the American commander, a Colonel Lundquist, was asked to surrender by the German commanding officer. The American simply said, "Nuts." Of course the kraut didn't know what the hell that was all about.
     Throughout the war the 442nd had a casualty rate of seventy percent. That's serious and the story has it a whole lot of them were pissed off 'cause of being treated like cannon fodder. Most any grunt can relate to that but seventy percent? Their bitch was on the money.
     The Hawaii National Guard continued to carry the name of 442nd RCT and was activated in 1968 for Vietnam. When us dog soldiers from Vietnam showed up, Schofield was already partially occupied by the Guard who hadn't bent sent to the Nam. The colors of the 9th Infantry Division were still in Vietnam. So were those of the 25th Infantry until they came back to Hawaii in December of '69. There's a blank in between that I can't fill in for sure. That's why I figure us Old Reliables were for a couple of months part of the activated 442nd.
     Kind of confusing and probably a lot of smoke being blown but that's about as good as I can figure it out.
     Took a while for the Army to sort us all out. In some ways it was just like Oakland Army Base and waiting on orders for Vietnam. Only now it was in reverse. So we waited. And started punching each other in the arm. Don't know how that got started and don't know how the rules came about. Nobody said nothing about it. We just did it. Somebody would walk up and whack you as hard as he could and you just took it. And said nothing. Then you wandered off and did the same to someone else. Weird shit.
     Most fun was when I got hit high on the shoulder and the blow kept coming. Hit me square in the jaw. 'Tweren't nothin'. Woulda made me feel just like one of the Greiner brothers in Deliverance. That is if the book had already been written. C'mon Jim Dickey.
     When my eyes stopped spinning and the stars set, I went up and gave Weasel what for. Yeah, we was some real tough guys doing what real tough guys do. Woulda made more sense had we been real smart guys doing what real smart guys do. But we didn't. And we waited.
     I still had a few dollars in my pocket so me and Weasel went out and played golf a couple of times. Didn't cost more than a two and a half bucks and included rental clubs. I kept pushing shots to the right. So frustrating it almost made want to go back to the Nam. One of the times we even played with Sgt. Heath. That man was one seriously good golfer. Figured.
     After a week and a half orders came down and I was off to a grunt unit. Damnation. A whole week's MP training down the tubes.
     Most every evening I'd call Lois collect. Word still said we'd get leave once we were assigned to a regular outfit. The two of us were planning a wedding and working on a date even though we didn't have a clue when I'd be coming home. Why not? There were still four months left in the groovy sixties when people built bridges without supports at either end. Nothing made much sense back then, so why not a wedding planned long distance and on short notice?

Hawaii

     We landed at Hickham AFB about the same time we left Vietnam. Guess that was a result of the way the British drew all those lines around the planet and it created a problem they never could figure out how to correct. If you lived right on the line and bounced back and forth it'd be possible to live two lives at the same time. Or none, I guess. Screwier than all get out but then, we were landing in Hawaii just like we'd said back when the Army gave us sunglasses back in AIT. Heaven and Hell. According to the clock, at the same time.
     In my case, all because of showing up at Oakland Army Base three days late. Fate or dumb luck? Guess I'll never know the answer. Only bad part was still bein' in the Army. 'Course I wouldn't have been there without the good ol' Army.
     The air smelled like flowers. Really it did. Dong Tam had smelled like burnin' shit and diesel fuel. The Delta like a swamp in July. Mostly 'cause that's what it was all year long. Most any other place would've smelled better than the place we'd left but not like flowers. If there's one thing I'll carry to my grave about Hawaii, it's the fragrance. Says, "Aloha," in the nicest possible way.
     No hula girls with leis to greet us. No stoppin' at the bar for a mai tai. No rent-a-car or hotel but at least there was a bus to cart us up and inland to where Schofield Barracks lay waiting.
     Schofield Barracks, damn. Imagine that. If you've ever seen the movie From Here to Eternity you know what Schofield looks like. Almost expected Burt Lancaster and Montgomery Clift to be there watching Deborah Kerr walk over to the Buick, skirt swayin' in rhythm with her hips, "Sheesss."
     Ever since I saw that movie as a kid Schofield held a special place in my mind. Since those days I've read the book seven or eight times. Great story. James Jones, the author, did his time there before the start of the war and later at Guadalcanal. Private Prewitt and First Sergeant Warden, the main characters, two sides of the same coin. Back when I was a kid I couldn't make up my mind which one I wanted to be. Didn't really matter, both of them, each in his own way, pissed on the system that was the U. S. Army. Didn't know it back when I was ten but that was my destiny. System Pisser First Class with two Oak Leaf Clusters. So I got the best of both, or worst depending on your point of view.
     Deep down inside I couldn't see any point to being in the Army after leaving the Nam. Hell, I was just drawing pay and filling a hole that didn't need to be filled. Sleep, eat, shit, wear green clothes and then do it again tomorrow.
     The base sits at the bottom of the Ko'olau Mountains more or less at the foot of Kolekole Pass (you'd think spell check would know what the hell that is but it sure doesn't). That's where one of the Japanese Zero flights came through during the Pearl Harbor attack.
     Across the highway on the other side of the base sits Kemoo farms on the edge of Wahiawa (I have to tell you, spell check's never been to Hawaii). Inside the base on the Kemoo side there sits the Offices Quarters slowly being eaten up by cock roaches and termites, married enlisted quarters being eaten up by bigger cock roaches and termites, a golf course, open fields, rifle range, PX, beer garden, headquarters buildings, a stockade and the quads.
     The quads were just that, four concrete and stucco buildings surrounding a large grassy drill field. Don't know how many quads there were. Enough to house a small division I suppose. Each quad was its own little world. Held a battalion of Infantry and whatnot. Like I said, from up on the third floor it looked just like a movie. Except all of us were really in the Army. The pretend Army that played war but mostly cleaned shit.
     But it was still Hawaii and I doubt anybody in the known universe would say it was anywhere near as bad as Vietnam. So I'll bitch a lot about my time there but really don't have much reason to.

The Infamous Lundsford Affair

     Outside of the fact we were facing to the rear of the plane 'cause that's the safe way to fly it was just like any other commercial flight without stewardesses and liquor. 'Course the metal and nylon webbed seats were extra special. I figured they made us face to the rear so there'd be less chance of gettin' our heads stuck up our's or anyone else's ass should we crash. I know that sounds like no big deal 'cause you'd be dead whether or not your head was up your ass or not but in my book that's a whole lot worse than bein' caught dead with dirty underwear. Outside of that, not a whole lot happened on the way to Hawaii beside our stop in Okinawa or Guam or some other place on which we had no reason to have an Air Force base. Unless of course we stuck ourselves into a land war in Asia which nobody in their right mind would ever do. That's when we came upon a plane load of Marines fresh out of training and on their way to where we'd just left.
     Now that's kind of funny in itself. We were on the way to the world 'cause the U.S. was pullin' out of Vietnam and their plane load of cannon fodder was on their way in. Something about that strikes me as a little strange. We were baggin' the whole thing yet these dudes were on their way into a one in ten chance of dyin'. Maybe one of 'em would be the last American to bite the dust in Indochina.
     And each and everyone one of 'em looked a little scared. Probably just like I'd looked five months earlier.
     None of us made a move to harass the jarheads. We knew the score. Then Lundsford, the company mascot 'cause he was a peril to each of us who patrolled the Delta with him, friendly fire in boots, walks right up to 'em with a grin on his face:
     "Howdy boys. I suspect you're on your way to Vietnam. You look scared and I sure don't blame ya. Ya got good reason to be scared. I know, I been there. By the way, when ya get there, whatever ya do, don't let the little man catch ya half-steppin' or he'll do ya a natural born J O B."
     Then turned and walked back to us. There was a moment's vacuum sucking the air out of the room, immediately followed by a roar of hysterical laughter from each of us who'd been in Bravo Company. Couldn't have picked a better man or more perfect phrase. Three cliches in one sentence. As far as I knew those cliches were Bravo Company's alone. Probably not but let me live in my dream world.

Time to Go

     All good things gotta end (seems I said that before). Even something as fun as bein' at the shootin' end of an immoral war. On the last night we made final preparations in the hope we'd look like clean, upstanding soldiers every mother'd want their daughters to go out with. Yeah, it was a ruse for sure but if lookin' upstanding and moral was what it took to get on that plane, we sure as hell were gonna do 'er.

     One of the brothers - brother being a word for a male African-Amaerican - was a master with a razor blade and a comb. Shaved all our heads down to the nubs for a buck a throw. Boots were shined and jungle fatigues starched and pressed. Strack. 

     Me, I was master of the sleeve roll. Uncle Sam said they had to be rolled. Took my time, pulled each fold full and flat. One of the E-6s liked my work so much he had me do his. Gettin' our asses out of country knew no rank.

     On a sad note I burned all of Lois' letters 'cause of the rumor mill. Story was every duffle bag was gonna be searched. And letters read lookin' for treasonous and seditious content. One bad word and it was hello new line unit. Can't say the letters Lois wrote had any of that in them but I decided to take no chances. This was no time to say f*** 'em if they can't take a joke. Letters were just paper with words on them. And it hurt like hell when I put a match to them in a waste basket. But that's just the way she was.

     Come the morning of August 27, 1969 we all boarded Chinook helicopters - we called them shit-hooks 'cause we were so clever - and flew off to Saigon and Bien Hoa air base. Second time I'd flown on a Chinook. First was leavin' Snoopy's Nose on the day Second Platoon was wiped out. That was a fine ride. This one was even better.

     At Bien Hoa we boarded an Air Force transport, big assed, four jet engine job. In the boarding line the E-6 whose sleeves I'd rolled said the obligatory "next." 

     Don't know about the rest of the men but I wasn't all that hepped up. Maybe I would have been had this been day 365 and not an early out. Maybe I was anticipatin' living the rest of my life knowing I didn't do a full tour. Didn't do my full penance for the stupidity that put me in the Army in the first place. Yup, I felt like a faker. Wanted to go and stay at the same time. Like I had a choice. And if I did, I'd a been a damned fool to stay. But I'd have thought about it. Weird, ain't it?

     

Duty and AWOLs

     All good things come to an end. For that matter, so do bad things. And that brings us back to good things ending. In this case it was time to pull some MP duty. Believe me, five days of training does little to prepare a person to become a cop. At least that was my case. Lucky me, Sgt. Heath and I hit it off. He saw something in me that wasn't there. An ability to be a truly fine MP. Must have been the way my German blood took to wearing a uniform. Or maybe my spit shined boots. No matter, on the first possible night shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a Jeep. Thank God the man in the driver's seat knew what he was doing.
     Not much was going on in Dong Tam. Unless you consider an AWOL or two wandering back onto the post something. I don't know how many GIs went over the hill in Vietnam. A little research hinted that the number might have been as high as four thousand. Like I've said many times, this wasn't a popular war. We even had one of them in Bravo Company.
     He was the guy with the machine gun hiding behind the dike when my squad was trapped in a bare paddy. Guess he figured it was better us dying than him. He was also the guy who couldn't get it up for a two dollar whore when we were pulling guard for an artillery outfit. It's actually a funny story in a cruel, sadistic way. With a touch of the irony I love so much.
     Joe was your typical horny GI. Actually we all were but a fair number of us kept our zippers up for a variety of different reasons. In this instance an elderly gentleman, more of an asshole pimp actually, brought a young lady over to our position, the idea being two dollars for a minute's lust venting. Not my cup of tea. Couldn't see much romance in it.
     So, as she backed up against a tree - I got this info second hand as I saw no point hanging around like a dog on the outskirts - a line formed and the old guy collected admission. Joe was about tenth in line and bouncing around in heat. Till his turn arrived and naturally he instantly went limp. A half minute of self stimulation got him up again and two strokes got him off. Here comes the ironic part: of course he got the clap. As did all the others. Yup, it was one weird war.  As usual, most of the problems were self caused.
     About the time rumors started about the pullout Joe disappeared. Never heard from him again. For sure he wasn't the guy we picked up on that first duty night.
     As time grew short, more and more filtered in. Who could blame them? Better to end up in the stockade than be left behind. Who knew what might happen when the war ended and the ARVNs lost?
     I knew for sure I wouldn't want to be a GI deserter when the North Vietnamese came marchin' into Saigon. Too bad for the AWOLs but they sure as hell screwed up. Life in a combat unit was tough but geez Louise, in Vietnam the grass sure as hell wasn't greener on the other side of the fence. No flag wavin' intended but once you took the oath it was a little late for protestin'.

Medals III

     Did some research on the welcome home parade and didn't find squat. Part of me thinks it might have been in Seattle but as I best recall, the rumors had it in San Francisco. Like either one mattered to us.

     Got a problem and have no way to find out the truth. Is my attitude normal for a combat vet, albeit short seven months of a full tour? Somewhere down the road I'm gonna drag this drawn out memory into my early civilian years. What can be said for sure is that I didn't seem to fit. Felt an oddball among the vets and an oddball among those who didn't go. 

     Got no problem with those who didn't go, so long as they made a stand and paid the price of admission. Good friend of mind was a conscientious objector. Had the draft card to prove it. And did two years with the Peace Corps in Afghanistan. Good for him. No problems either with those who fled across the border. Gutsy move. Or those who did their time in prison. 

     As for the Bill Clinton or George W. Bush types. Simple as pie, total assholes. No two ways about it. Says a lot about us that we elected them to the presidency. Or Richard Nixon. Or Ronald Reagan. Or George H. W. Bush.  Seems like us Americans have our problems when it comes to electing leaders.