The monkey wrench in our lust for medals got thrown quickly. And from the other side of the world. Seemed some fools with silver or gold on their shoulders thought it'd be a good idea to have a parade. Or so the rumor told us. Just like WWII or WWI. Ticker tale and all that kinda shit. Heroes marchin' in formation, struttin' their stuff. Back from the jungles of Southeast Asia makin' the Free World safe from the Red Peril.
Don't know if it woulda been different in any other city but San Francisco was a seriously bad choice. Two years earlier the Summer of Love had happened on the very streets the parade was 'sposed to hike down. And the U. of California at Berkley, one of the seats of the anti-war movement, was just across the Bay Bridge. Maybe even the song by Donovan, Universal Soldier, had something to do with it by putting the blame on the shoulders of us grunts. Yup, there were a lot of righteous I didn't go 'cause I'm a helluva lot more moral than you types in the area. And they knew for absolute certain the GIs marchin' down the street coulda stayed home if they'd been smart. 'Course they might have softened a little on the black soldiers 'cause they were just pawns in the game. As for us white GIs, no doubt we were all hawkish, kill 'em if you find 'em types. Maybe even unchained from the basements down in Mississippi where we'd been kept 'cause we weren't moral enough to be in the Ku Klux Klan.
So the boys in green lined up and marched down the streets to the tunes of booing and shouts of, "Baby killers!" For sure some babies were killed 'cause we were there. Also for sure that none of the men I knew woulda done anything like that. We didn't even smoke dope. All we wanted was to go home.
Like I'd said earlier, what we heard was through the rumor mill. But that didn't matter to us in the least. All we wanted now was to go home and be left alone. It'd been a shitty war, no doubt a shitty peace was gonna follow. And us draftees were caught in the middle between the pro-war side who we didn't much like 'cause they'd sent us to a war we couldn't win and the peaceniks who thought we'd sinned against humanity by going. We were screwed, glued and tattooed. And damned sure we never wanted to be in a parade. Welcome home, my ass.
I feel about the same as I write this. Too late for anyone to say thank you now. And it was too late in 1969. It'll always be too late.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Medals
Coulda been MacArthur who said an army travels on its medals. Such a statement sure would have fit the man. Way back in my teen years I read a biography of the general. In the footnotes of the book it listed each and every medal he received. One at a time. Good thing he had himself a man to pin those ribbons on for him or he'd a been facing a regular nipple piercing every time he wanted to look spiffy. What I most recall is that he issued most of those silver stars to himself. And they all arrived about as quickly as he could dream 'em up. Must of been nice. Of course my memory might be faulty.
Down in the Delta she didn't quite work that way or when it did, those medals sure took their time arriving. In my DD 214, that's the orders of separation from regular duty, it says the Army in its infinite wisdom issued me an Army Commendation Medal. That's the Army's version of an atta boy. As to the medal itself, I still ain't seen it. No matter, I'd have probably stuck it in the back of a drawer or pissed on it some other way.
Most every man jack of us in Bravo Company qualified for an Air Medal seein' as how we were air mobile. Rode choppers a couple of dozen times a month. Not a one of saw any of the medals for that.
'Bout the only one of us who received a medal for heroism that didn't involve bein' shot, either Silver or Bronze Star, was Bobby Woolwine. His was silver. All the rest called for a hole in the body and a clerk with a creative typewriter. That's the way most of the Bronze Stars were earned in Vietnam to my recollection. Trip a booby trap and get yourself fragged. The report has you defendin' fellow troops or assaultin' a heavily armed position. Thats' just the way she was.
Anyhow, as we were all fixin' to head back to the world, we got to thinkin' about the medals we didn't get but had comin' to us. About how when we went home on leave, we wanted to look like the bad-ass heroes we truly were. And right there in Dong Tam, at the tailor's shop - only we didn't call any of the Vietnamese shops by their real names, we called 'em gook shops, not necessarily politically correct but that's what we called them - was the answer to our prayers. Couldn't buy medals but that didn't matter 'cause no one ever wore medals. But we could buy ribbons. Coulda bought enough to look like a Macarthur startin' at the top of the left pocket, then risin' up and over the shoulder and so far down the back so that our CIB's - that's Combat Infantryman's Badge - woulda been pinned to a pants pocket.
A whole bunch of us shopped there. As far as I know none of us bought more than we had coming. That's where my ArCom and Air Medal ribbons came from. Was tempted to buy a Purple Heart ribbon for the one I turned down but thought better of it. Woolwine got the Oak Leaf Cluster that went on his Purple Heart. Probably his Air Medal too but I can't say that for sure. Bobby, he looked like Robert DeNiro in The Deer Hunter, only without the beard and the Hollywood bullshit.
There's a lot more weight behind the medals from Vietnam than I bring up here. Not my story to tell. But for sure some were thrown away by Vietnam Veteran war protestors after they got back. A whole lot are in the ground in National Cemeteries attached to rotted uniforms. Thousands are stuffed in the back of drawers. Tons were never issued. Truth behind it all, for me at least, the only one that matters is the CIB. Says a body was there, for whatever reason, and dodged a bullet or two.
Anyhow, as we were all fixin' to head back to the world, we got to thinkin' about the medals we didn't get but had comin' to us. About how when we went home on leave, we wanted to look like the bad-ass heroes we truly were. And right there in Dong Tam, at the tailor's shop - only we didn't call any of the Vietnamese shops by their real names, we called 'em gook shops, not necessarily politically correct but that's what we called them - was the answer to our prayers. Couldn't buy medals but that didn't matter 'cause no one ever wore medals. But we could buy ribbons. Coulda bought enough to look like a Macarthur startin' at the top of the left pocket, then risin' up and over the shoulder and so far down the back so that our CIB's - that's Combat Infantryman's Badge - woulda been pinned to a pants pocket.
A whole bunch of us shopped there. As far as I know none of us bought more than we had coming. That's where my ArCom and Air Medal ribbons came from. Was tempted to buy a Purple Heart ribbon for the one I turned down but thought better of it. Woolwine got the Oak Leaf Cluster that went on his Purple Heart. Probably his Air Medal too but I can't say that for sure. Bobby, he looked like Robert DeNiro in The Deer Hunter, only without the beard and the Hollywood bullshit.
There's a lot more weight behind the medals from Vietnam than I bring up here. Not my story to tell. But for sure some were thrown away by Vietnam Veteran war protestors after they got back. A whole lot are in the ground in National Cemeteries attached to rotted uniforms. Thousands are stuffed in the back of drawers. Tons were never issued. Truth behind it all, for me at least, the only one that matters is the CIB. Says a body was there, for whatever reason, and dodged a bullet or two.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
MP Life
Almost forgot. It was definite, we were going to Hawaii. Wasn't that a kick in the pants? Not for me exactly but for all those helpless dudes in my AIT company who'd shown up on time back in April. At the moment they were in the 101st Airborne up in the Au Shau Valley. Dyin' like flies on Hamburger Hill. Jeez, think about it for a minute. If I hadn't been a three days AWOL somebody really cool coulda played me in the movie by the same name, Hamburger Hill, in case you forgot. Coulda been immortalized on film with my head splatterin' all over the screen from an RPG. I'd have made one fine tragic dead man in the movies. Maybe played by Willem Dafoe all shot up with angst. But that wasn't in the cards.
Can't say for sure why I showed up at Oakland three days late. There were a lot of reasons. Maybe too many. Love, fear of misery and death, a deep down part of me knew it wasn't a good idea to show up on time. A guardian angel? A whole lot of reasons. Whether it was a moral war or not sure wasn't one of 'em. When you're off to be a grunt, it don't matter one bit if it be a good war or a bad one, all wars are shit holes. Man, let's say I just didn't want to go or even closer to the truth, being home was a nice place to be. But I went. And lucked out. On my way to Hawaii and the Army was pickin' up the airfare. Woulda been nice if they'd picked up a little of the guilt. But that was mine to fester over all by my lonesome. Poor me, I was goin' to paradise.
Last ironic moment, for the moment: Back in AIT, sometime around the seventh week, us guys with bad eyes were issued sunglasses. Mine were too small but that was no big deal. Anyhow, we all strutted around sayin' as how we were goin' to Hawaii and had the glasses so we could look cool on Waikiki beach and wow the surfer girls. None of us believed it. Now, one of us was havin' it come true. Like I've said time and time again, I was the Golden Boy.
Kinda odd how being in a combat unit ain't like being in the Army. That might sound a little squirrely but it sure as hell is true. Maybe still is. When you're in the field and the bullets start flyin', the whole world turns into a democracy. Yeah, the guy with the bars still calls the shots but most of the time his ass is somewhere else. In the line of fire it's every man for himself. The heroes watched out for others. The rest of us were simply hopin' for a heartbeat when the smoke cleared. Out in the field, no one wore rank and we all treated each other like human beings. Even if they were total assholes. Gotta remember, each of us carried a gun and that called for respect. Watch your tongue. Laugh at their jokes.
Wasn't like that back in Dong Tam when we started to become MPs. Shine them boots. Starch them fatigues. Take classes and do PT. PT was shameful. But we got used to it. Even the double timing through the post. In formation. Bein' hooted and hollered at by the idiots we passed. And they were idiots. Total frickin' idiots. But we sucked it up 'cause we were goin' home. And 'cause Davy Heath was up front, trottin' and bein' hollered at just like us. Bein' laughed at made us feel we weren't half as much the fool as the scumbags we passed. Go figure.
Heath didn't come down hard on us like most any other non-com woulda. Like I said earlier, he was the kind of man who led by example. Cut through the BS. Said simply, "This is the way it's gotta be. Get used to it."
One of the classes we had was weird. Ingmar Bergman weird. You know, the kind of weird where some near albino Swede's strollin' down the beach in a snowstorm. Waves crashin', total whiteout and all. Of course he stumbles on a figure of death. Black hood, boney fingers and sickle. That kinda shit used to happen to me all the time so I was hip. Anyhow, the figure of death pops open his cape, kinda flashes the Swede like your typical, run of the mill pervert. 'Spose to cause the albino to drop dead on the spot. Only the Swede ain't your typical cold blooded Scandinavian. Got some Latin blood in him from back in the Viking days when his great-great-ect.-grandfather brought himself home a harem of Italian slatterns. Anyhow, instead of dying, the Swede just gets a hard on. Only it ain't a hard on. Simple case of rigor mortis in his dick. Now he don't know his willie be dead, just thinks he's now God's gift to the ladies. And they seem to think so too. Except now on those cold, far north winter nights. He chills 'em off about the same time he warms them up. The flick finishes up with just another confused Bergman non-ending that impresses no one except the film critics.
Our class wasn't quite that strange 'cause Sgt. Heath was an African-American. The skit was a fast hitting, shoot 'em up with the hand gun held sideways that's over about two seconds after it starts. Whole lotta shit going on at once. Cast of thousands. Then we're supposed to be able to say what just happened. Me, I said, "Can we see it again?" And was hopin' nothing like that ever happens to me when I'm on duty 'cause there's no way I'm hangin' around when the guns get pulled. I'd been in combat and had seen the bullets fly. Don't let anybody tell you different. Bullets can kill you.
Best part about our trainin' was time off. Almost like it was a stand down every day. Duty done, we pitched horseshoes or shot buckets. Horseshoes was the game of choice. American as all get out. We had this E-6 who liked to do his pitchin' with a bottle of Crown Royal handy. Not sure how easy that stuff went down in the heat but he didn't seem to mind.
It was there I saw my first gay GIs, only we didn't call them that back then. Didn't even realize they were gay for that matter. Who knows? Maybe they weren't. At the time I just thought of them as a little strange. It surely did strike me as odd that a couple of bunk mates could be so dedicated to gettin' a good tan, 'specially on their backsides.
Shootin' buckets one day we had to bag it after twenty minutes. Couldn't figure out why we were so bushed. While we sat there huffin' and puffin' the guy on the Armed Forces station out of Saigon lets us know the temperature is a hundred-fourteen. Shit-fire, literally. And us bein' in a river delta. Must have been some terrible kind of dew point, that is if they'd had that back then.
Almost forgot. The month before, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. 'Course we were out in the field and didn't know that. Not aware of it in the least. Wouldn't have much cared even if we had known. Two men on the moon, a half million in a shit hole of an unwinable war. Maybe that balanced out but I don't think so. As Forrest Gump's mama said, "Stupid is as stupid does." Not hard to figure out what that made us.
Can't say for sure why I showed up at Oakland three days late. There were a lot of reasons. Maybe too many. Love, fear of misery and death, a deep down part of me knew it wasn't a good idea to show up on time. A guardian angel? A whole lot of reasons. Whether it was a moral war or not sure wasn't one of 'em. When you're off to be a grunt, it don't matter one bit if it be a good war or a bad one, all wars are shit holes. Man, let's say I just didn't want to go or even closer to the truth, being home was a nice place to be. But I went. And lucked out. On my way to Hawaii and the Army was pickin' up the airfare. Woulda been nice if they'd picked up a little of the guilt. But that was mine to fester over all by my lonesome. Poor me, I was goin' to paradise.
Last ironic moment, for the moment: Back in AIT, sometime around the seventh week, us guys with bad eyes were issued sunglasses. Mine were too small but that was no big deal. Anyhow, we all strutted around sayin' as how we were goin' to Hawaii and had the glasses so we could look cool on Waikiki beach and wow the surfer girls. None of us believed it. Now, one of us was havin' it come true. Like I've said time and time again, I was the Golden Boy.
Kinda odd how being in a combat unit ain't like being in the Army. That might sound a little squirrely but it sure as hell is true. Maybe still is. When you're in the field and the bullets start flyin', the whole world turns into a democracy. Yeah, the guy with the bars still calls the shots but most of the time his ass is somewhere else. In the line of fire it's every man for himself. The heroes watched out for others. The rest of us were simply hopin' for a heartbeat when the smoke cleared. Out in the field, no one wore rank and we all treated each other like human beings. Even if they were total assholes. Gotta remember, each of us carried a gun and that called for respect. Watch your tongue. Laugh at their jokes.
Wasn't like that back in Dong Tam when we started to become MPs. Shine them boots. Starch them fatigues. Take classes and do PT. PT was shameful. But we got used to it. Even the double timing through the post. In formation. Bein' hooted and hollered at by the idiots we passed. And they were idiots. Total frickin' idiots. But we sucked it up 'cause we were goin' home. And 'cause Davy Heath was up front, trottin' and bein' hollered at just like us. Bein' laughed at made us feel we weren't half as much the fool as the scumbags we passed. Go figure.
Heath didn't come down hard on us like most any other non-com woulda. Like I said earlier, he was the kind of man who led by example. Cut through the BS. Said simply, "This is the way it's gotta be. Get used to it."
One of the classes we had was weird. Ingmar Bergman weird. You know, the kind of weird where some near albino Swede's strollin' down the beach in a snowstorm. Waves crashin', total whiteout and all. Of course he stumbles on a figure of death. Black hood, boney fingers and sickle. That kinda shit used to happen to me all the time so I was hip. Anyhow, the figure of death pops open his cape, kinda flashes the Swede like your typical, run of the mill pervert. 'Spose to cause the albino to drop dead on the spot. Only the Swede ain't your typical cold blooded Scandinavian. Got some Latin blood in him from back in the Viking days when his great-great-ect.-grandfather brought himself home a harem of Italian slatterns. Anyhow, instead of dying, the Swede just gets a hard on. Only it ain't a hard on. Simple case of rigor mortis in his dick. Now he don't know his willie be dead, just thinks he's now God's gift to the ladies. And they seem to think so too. Except now on those cold, far north winter nights. He chills 'em off about the same time he warms them up. The flick finishes up with just another confused Bergman non-ending that impresses no one except the film critics.
Our class wasn't quite that strange 'cause Sgt. Heath was an African-American. The skit was a fast hitting, shoot 'em up with the hand gun held sideways that's over about two seconds after it starts. Whole lotta shit going on at once. Cast of thousands. Then we're supposed to be able to say what just happened. Me, I said, "Can we see it again?" And was hopin' nothing like that ever happens to me when I'm on duty 'cause there's no way I'm hangin' around when the guns get pulled. I'd been in combat and had seen the bullets fly. Don't let anybody tell you different. Bullets can kill you.
Best part about our trainin' was time off. Almost like it was a stand down every day. Duty done, we pitched horseshoes or shot buckets. Horseshoes was the game of choice. American as all get out. We had this E-6 who liked to do his pitchin' with a bottle of Crown Royal handy. Not sure how easy that stuff went down in the heat but he didn't seem to mind.
It was there I saw my first gay GIs, only we didn't call them that back then. Didn't even realize they were gay for that matter. Who knows? Maybe they weren't. At the time I just thought of them as a little strange. It surely did strike me as odd that a couple of bunk mates could be so dedicated to gettin' a good tan, 'specially on their backsides.
Shootin' buckets one day we had to bag it after twenty minutes. Couldn't figure out why we were so bushed. While we sat there huffin' and puffin' the guy on the Armed Forces station out of Saigon lets us know the temperature is a hundred-fourteen. Shit-fire, literally. And us bein' in a river delta. Must have been some terrible kind of dew point, that is if they'd had that back then.
Almost forgot. The month before, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. 'Course we were out in the field and didn't know that. Not aware of it in the least. Wouldn't have much cared even if we had known. Two men on the moon, a half million in a shit hole of an unwinable war. Maybe that balanced out but I don't think so. As Forrest Gump's mama said, "Stupid is as stupid does." Not hard to figure out what that made us.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Transfer
A cop? Me, a cop? And a military one to boot. What were they thinking of? Nah, it simply had to be another case of FUBAR. And I didn't even know what that was at the time. I mean, I'd seen it in action many a time. But I sure didn't believe it could happen to me. And turn out to be a good thing at the same time.
So I gathered up my things and got a ride to another barracks where the Army was gonna turn me into an MP. The things I had with me had ballooned to two duffle bags. One of the guys in my squad had been transferred from grunt to chief underwear dispenser. Somehow the two of us became friends. Don't think we had a thing in common except he was a bullshitter of the first order and I always had a thing for BSers. Most of what they had to say was kinda true, at least in their own minds it was true, then was made more fun by stretchin' it out here and there. But, fun to listen to? You bet. Cars, women, petty crime, all good stuff to pass the time.
Couple of days before Bravo set off for the world he asked me if I wanted any uniforms or boots. Couldn't think of a single use for any of it. Also couldn't think of a single reason to say no. So there I was, on my first jeep ride in Vietnam, travelin' off to the other side of Dong Tam with a new duffle, eight new sets of jungle fatigues and six new pairs of boots. Coulda started my own army. Or black market.
Becomin' an MP didn't quite set right with me. Bein' a grunt really sucked but at least you knew you were at the bottom of the heap. There's honor down in the cesspool. All that trickle down trickle downin' its way all the way from the White House. But the MPs, they had a well earned reputation. Screwin' with grunts just 'cause they didn't have their IDs on them. Pushin' VCs out of helicopters for the fun of it. 'Spose there were a coupla good ones but I doubted it. But if it got me out of Vietnam, so be it.
The man in charge turned out to be Sergeant First Class Davy Heath. Heath was an immense black man. Not fat, just big. Big like he worked out with weights every day. And, lordy, lordy, I hate to say it, he was an honorable man. First and only lifer I'd have called a career soldier, even if he was a cop.
His introduction to us rag-tag, ill suited bunch went something like this:
"Morning. I'm gonna cut this short and sweet. I've got one week to turn you men into MPs. And that ain't easy. Not impossible because we're all going to work our butts off, but not easy. You're going to have four hours of class a day, an hour of PT and three hours to get your gear and selves in order. You're going to look, act and pull shifts as MPs at the end of the week.
There's no doubt you'll run into trouble when you're finally on the street pulling duty. When you do I'll back you up one hundred percent. Anybody who's gotta problem with the way you handled yourself has to come through me first. And they ain't gettin' through. However, when the smoke clears and it's just the two of us, you'll answer to me and my justice. Understood?"
I could live with that. Didn't know what his sense of justice was and had no intention of ever finding out. Strangely enough. the two of us hit it off from the get-go. Don't know why. Maybe 'cause we could sense things in each other that made us to feel at home. Some people just feel right.
Seemed like half the troops in the MP company had been pulled out of Bravo Company. Weasel, Papa-san, Pineapple, Lunsford and the guy who was always listening to Jackie Wilson. Like old home week. Had I been paying attention I'd have realized half that makeshift MP Company was activated National Guardsmen. During the war both Ohio and Hawaii had been activated. Bad luck for those NGs. Odd men in an odd group of men. Put together on paper so all the holes in the new Division could be filled. Then torn apart to form another Division. More on that later.
So I gathered up my things and got a ride to another barracks where the Army was gonna turn me into an MP. The things I had with me had ballooned to two duffle bags. One of the guys in my squad had been transferred from grunt to chief underwear dispenser. Somehow the two of us became friends. Don't think we had a thing in common except he was a bullshitter of the first order and I always had a thing for BSers. Most of what they had to say was kinda true, at least in their own minds it was true, then was made more fun by stretchin' it out here and there. But, fun to listen to? You bet. Cars, women, petty crime, all good stuff to pass the time.
Couple of days before Bravo set off for the world he asked me if I wanted any uniforms or boots. Couldn't think of a single use for any of it. Also couldn't think of a single reason to say no. So there I was, on my first jeep ride in Vietnam, travelin' off to the other side of Dong Tam with a new duffle, eight new sets of jungle fatigues and six new pairs of boots. Coulda started my own army. Or black market.
Becomin' an MP didn't quite set right with me. Bein' a grunt really sucked but at least you knew you were at the bottom of the heap. There's honor down in the cesspool. All that trickle down trickle downin' its way all the way from the White House. But the MPs, they had a well earned reputation. Screwin' with grunts just 'cause they didn't have their IDs on them. Pushin' VCs out of helicopters for the fun of it. 'Spose there were a coupla good ones but I doubted it. But if it got me out of Vietnam, so be it.
The man in charge turned out to be Sergeant First Class Davy Heath. Heath was an immense black man. Not fat, just big. Big like he worked out with weights every day. And, lordy, lordy, I hate to say it, he was an honorable man. First and only lifer I'd have called a career soldier, even if he was a cop.
His introduction to us rag-tag, ill suited bunch went something like this:
"Morning. I'm gonna cut this short and sweet. I've got one week to turn you men into MPs. And that ain't easy. Not impossible because we're all going to work our butts off, but not easy. You're going to have four hours of class a day, an hour of PT and three hours to get your gear and selves in order. You're going to look, act and pull shifts as MPs at the end of the week.
There's no doubt you'll run into trouble when you're finally on the street pulling duty. When you do I'll back you up one hundred percent. Anybody who's gotta problem with the way you handled yourself has to come through me first. And they ain't gettin' through. However, when the smoke clears and it's just the two of us, you'll answer to me and my justice. Understood?"
I could live with that. Didn't know what his sense of justice was and had no intention of ever finding out. Strangely enough. the two of us hit it off from the get-go. Don't know why. Maybe 'cause we could sense things in each other that made us to feel at home. Some people just feel right.
Seemed like half the troops in the MP company had been pulled out of Bravo Company. Weasel, Papa-san, Pineapple, Lunsford and the guy who was always listening to Jackie Wilson. Like old home week. Had I been paying attention I'd have realized half that makeshift MP Company was activated National Guardsmen. During the war both Ohio and Hawaii had been activated. Bad luck for those NGs. Odd men in an odd group of men. Put together on paper so all the holes in the new Division could be filled. Then torn apart to form another Division. More on that later.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Countdown
Irony reared its always appreciated head once again. Wish I'd a known it at the time. Would've made the process a whole lot more fun (maybe not as exciting) and easier on the gut.
Bravo Company was bein' pulled out come August 17th. Each day as that date approached names were called to let them know they were for sure goin' home as Bravo boys. Finally, on the last day it was down to nine of us in the skunk hole.
On the other side of the coin, names were bein' called who for sure weren't goin' as a part of the Company. But no longer were they a part of those havin' to stay in country. All of them were being shuffled off to do other jobs from running the PX to drivin' truck. And all of them had less time in country than me, so I knew I was safe. What it was I was safe for was a mystery.
While the bodies were bein' sorted out the rumor mill had us goin' to Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. Or Fort Ord in California. Or Fort Collins in Colorado. Smart money was on Hawaii but I knew that was way too good to be true. Couldn't see the Golden Boy pattern that had been evolving since I stumbled my way into the Army for all the sunshine and bluebirds floatin' around my head I guess.
Around this time we got access to a free WATS line so we could call the States for free anytime we wanted. After duty hours and a long wait in line that is. Waitin' in line was mostly a good time. Smokin' cigarettes and BS'n with whoever you went over there with. Sure beat humpin' the boonies.
Let's see? Who to call? I was leanin' toward President Nixon. Thank him for gettin' us outta this hell hole and tell him how good he looked in those dark blue suits and black wing tipped shoes. But I figured he had better things to do with his time. Like goin' out for Chinese food so's his stomach would be ready to head east and open up the Red Peril so they could someday fill up all the Walmarts with cheap plastic crap.
Number two on the short list was Lois. Figured she might as well know my good fortune. Seemed she already did. Seemed most everyone in the U.S. of A. did. Even had my name in the paper under the headline of:
Local AWOL Lucks Out - doesn't deserve it.
What she didn't know was that I was goin' to Hawaii, or California, or Colorado. You see, I phoned a half dozen times and each time it was different. I'd get her hopes up for paradise then crush 'em the next day. Finally she gave up the pineapple ghost.
Anyhow, no matter where I was headin', we were off and planning a wedding. That's an interesting concept. Planning something as important as a lifetime commitment when we were twelve thousand miles apart. Might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet (note of ironic humor). And when was this wedding to take place? Rumor had us getting leaves when we got back to the world. But the rumors didn't figure I'd already burned off all my leave 'til the next February. But maybe the rumor mill already knew I was a Golden Boy. More on that later.
Finally, the day or departure arrived in the form of an armada of deuce and a halfs. Bravo saddled up, loaded up and moved out. Then the word came down from on high, we were all going. All except for me, that is. Bubble boy in green. Shit fire! For a couple of hours I moped my ass around.
Now you've gotta remember, I may add a little color to the picture I'm paintin' but I sure ain't changin' the truth of it. That's just the way she was. All of Bravo was gone. Some to hell. Some to the World. Some to other companies but still goin' home. And then there was me. I sure felt special to be singled out like that. Almost expected the man to come in and tell me my job was to hold down the fort 'til every man-jack in the 9th Division was long gone. Just me and the mama-sans at the Dong Tam Steam and Cream. Can't say as I was up to such an important duty. That kinda shit only happened on Hollywood back lots where middle-aged John Wayne ran through the pretend jungles of Vietnam at night.
Really, in The Green Berets, he and a couple of other assholes did just that. Remember what I said about dark way back in those deleted pages? About real dark. Total black dark. The kind where you can't see your hand in front of your face. Nobody, but nobody does a night time sprint through a triple canopied forest or anywhere with uneven ground and trees that look like shadows.
So I went in and sat down on my bunk. Gave some thought to all the Sylvester Stallones in Hollywood who were gonna someday make a fortune out of pretending they'd been in the Nam savin' the world from Communism. And came to the conclusion they could all suck my dick.
Don't exactly remember what I was thinking back then in the empty barracks, but that's the general idea. Piss and moan. Woe is me.
Bravo Company was bein' pulled out come August 17th. Each day as that date approached names were called to let them know they were for sure goin' home as Bravo boys. Finally, on the last day it was down to nine of us in the skunk hole.
On the other side of the coin, names were bein' called who for sure weren't goin' as a part of the Company. But no longer were they a part of those havin' to stay in country. All of them were being shuffled off to do other jobs from running the PX to drivin' truck. And all of them had less time in country than me, so I knew I was safe. What it was I was safe for was a mystery.
While the bodies were bein' sorted out the rumor mill had us goin' to Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. Or Fort Ord in California. Or Fort Collins in Colorado. Smart money was on Hawaii but I knew that was way too good to be true. Couldn't see the Golden Boy pattern that had been evolving since I stumbled my way into the Army for all the sunshine and bluebirds floatin' around my head I guess.
Around this time we got access to a free WATS line so we could call the States for free anytime we wanted. After duty hours and a long wait in line that is. Waitin' in line was mostly a good time. Smokin' cigarettes and BS'n with whoever you went over there with. Sure beat humpin' the boonies.
Let's see? Who to call? I was leanin' toward President Nixon. Thank him for gettin' us outta this hell hole and tell him how good he looked in those dark blue suits and black wing tipped shoes. But I figured he had better things to do with his time. Like goin' out for Chinese food so's his stomach would be ready to head east and open up the Red Peril so they could someday fill up all the Walmarts with cheap plastic crap.
Number two on the short list was Lois. Figured she might as well know my good fortune. Seemed she already did. Seemed most everyone in the U.S. of A. did. Even had my name in the paper under the headline of:
Local AWOL Lucks Out - doesn't deserve it.
What she didn't know was that I was goin' to Hawaii, or California, or Colorado. You see, I phoned a half dozen times and each time it was different. I'd get her hopes up for paradise then crush 'em the next day. Finally she gave up the pineapple ghost.
Anyhow, no matter where I was headin', we were off and planning a wedding. That's an interesting concept. Planning something as important as a lifetime commitment when we were twelve thousand miles apart. Might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet (note of ironic humor). And when was this wedding to take place? Rumor had us getting leaves when we got back to the world. But the rumors didn't figure I'd already burned off all my leave 'til the next February. But maybe the rumor mill already knew I was a Golden Boy. More on that later.
Finally, the day or departure arrived in the form of an armada of deuce and a halfs. Bravo saddled up, loaded up and moved out. Then the word came down from on high, we were all going. All except for me, that is. Bubble boy in green. Shit fire! For a couple of hours I moped my ass around.
Now you've gotta remember, I may add a little color to the picture I'm paintin' but I sure ain't changin' the truth of it. That's just the way she was. All of Bravo was gone. Some to hell. Some to the World. Some to other companies but still goin' home. And then there was me. I sure felt special to be singled out like that. Almost expected the man to come in and tell me my job was to hold down the fort 'til every man-jack in the 9th Division was long gone. Just me and the mama-sans at the Dong Tam Steam and Cream. Can't say as I was up to such an important duty. That kinda shit only happened on Hollywood back lots where middle-aged John Wayne ran through the pretend jungles of Vietnam at night.
Really, in The Green Berets, he and a couple of other assholes did just that. Remember what I said about dark way back in those deleted pages? About real dark. Total black dark. The kind where you can't see your hand in front of your face. Nobody, but nobody does a night time sprint through a triple canopied forest or anywhere with uneven ground and trees that look like shadows.
So I went in and sat down on my bunk. Gave some thought to all the Sylvester Stallones in Hollywood who were gonna someday make a fortune out of pretending they'd been in the Nam savin' the world from Communism. And came to the conclusion they could all suck my dick.
Don't exactly remember what I was thinking back then in the empty barracks, but that's the general idea. Piss and moan. Woe is me.
Friday, August 10, 2012
The Truth is Revealed
Then, as July turned into August, some of the real newcomers began to disappear. And older, not necessarily wiser ones, came to take their places. The swap of bodies by time in country and count down to leavin' had begun.
Best part was the rookie officers. 'Specially one we'd had for a couple of weeks and knew to be a total screwup. Snap! Gone. Not our problem anymore. Tough part was he was gonna get other troops killed for sure. Unless they got him first.
Now that's an odd thing. We had a good run of platoon leaders. And our sergeants, outside of Rayer who was more of a jerk than a threat, didn't seem much different than the rest of us grunts. Mostly good boys, one and all. Don't remember if I was aware of fraggin' back when I was in country. If so, it never crossed my mind. 'Course about the only thing that crossed that no man's land in my head was goin' home. In First Platoon we were mostly one big happy family. Even the little sergeant who said he'd kill me. Never thought of doin' him in in his sleep. Guess the idea was we were out to kill the guys in the black pajamas not the guys we took showers with.
The other thing was dope. You know, the devil's weed us GIs were supposed to smoke every chance we had. Funny thing about it was that I saw it but twice in country. First time was in orientation. There an E-6 held up a pack of Marlboros with the end of the cigarette papers folded over.
Said, "This here be some bad shit. It get you thrown in LBJ - that was the Long Binh Jail for all you outsiders who don't know where the main army stockade was and what it was called in the Nam - faster than an AK round would pass through your too slow ass. Papa-san try to sell you this shit you best bid him a fond farewell. Or at least buy some for me. Heh, heh."
Oh, our E-6 instructors were some funny boys. Mostly because they were super short, knee high to a micro. That kinda short. What they thought was most funny was that they were goin' home in a week or two. And we weren't. And that they weren't dead or maimed. Like we would be for sure. Funniest part to me was that most of us survived. And they stayed in the Army. And became alcoholics, had three wives and six kids. Hen pecked and miserable. Hoo-hah.
Oddly enough the other time I came into contact with marijuana was out on the Cambodian border. Sure enough a papa-san, goatee and all, came peddlin' up on a bike and had a baggy full of weed for sale. There we were, shirts off, pants rolled up, beach party. Outside of the concertina wire stringing' that is. And, oh yeah we were out of artillery range. Should Charlie come crawlin' in the middle of the night and it was stain your drawers time with no one to provide you with a fresh pair.
The weed was three dollah for a baggy full. Numbah one fo' dinky dau. We bid him a fond farewell. No way we were gonna smoke the devil's weed out in the middle of nowhere land. Not that we were over the top straight pussies. Seemed more like if we were gonna die it'd be nice to know which dimension we were kickin' off from.
Seemed weird that in a war zone old men with dope and young boys with popsicles were out peddlin' around on bikes tryin' to hustle a buck. What the hell was that all about? Didn't they ever see The Sands of Iwo Jima? No old coots there tryin' to sell John Wayne a bag of shit. 'Course the Duke wouldn't have smoked any.
Anyhow, that was it for me and pot in Vietnam. Didn't know anybody that smoked it. Nada. From what the movies have shown us all, that's about all GI's did, smoke dope and drop napalm on baby hospitals. Sometimes it seems like I was in the wrong war.
Back in Dong Tam the exchange of bodies continued. Who were these new people? And why did they want to come join us? Bravo Company beefed up like never before. Went to the field with near a hundred grunts. Like I'd said earlier we slowly stopped making contact. Ol' Charlie knew what he was doin'. Don't mess with the Yankee Doodlers 'cause they know how to put a hurt on you. Wait 'til they go home and then we take on the ARVNs and wipe the paddies with their sorry asses.
Can't say I blamed the ARVNs. Most of them were draftees just like us. And it seemed this was our war more than it was theirs. Yeah, the handwriting was on the wall. And the words scrawled out the boys from the north were gonna win. And us GIs weren't gonna be there to see it come tumbling down. Unless it was on TV back in The World with Walter Cronkite tellin' us just how big a mess it was. Or a few years later in the movies with the Hollywood take. Underneath the handwriting was Ho Chi Minh's signature.
Then for about ten minutes we became stars. We returned to FSB Moore one day to find a reporter from Time magazine, or maybe the New York Times, I forget which. He was dressed just like a real GI. I could understand that for we were real snappy dressers. Looked just like Sergeant Rock.
Anyhow, he was snooping around asking questions. Don't remember any officers around makin' sure we gave the right answers. Like that would have made any difference. Finally he gets around to me 'cause I wear glasses. Logical assumption. A man who wears glasses no doubt burned his eyes out reading intellectual literature. Gotta be smart and might even give a snappy answer or two. Win me the Pulitzer Prize. Marry Joey Heatherton and be a happy man.
So he asks me, "What do you do?"
Naturally I answer, "I'm a student."
Now that might sound like a pretty dumb answer. But it was true. It's not like I was trying to be a wise ass. I didn't have to think about it. That was just what came out of my mouth. And just 'cause I was wearin' the green costume and had dirt on my face didn't mean I actually was what I looked like I was.
"No. No. I mean what do you do in your Company?
"I'm an RTO."
"So, what do you think about the pull out and what do you think will happen as a result?"
I had no idea what he wanted me to say or where the hell he'd been in Vietnam but down in the Delta the answer to that question was well known by every grunt who'd ever gone to the field with the ARVNs.
"Well, we're gonna leave and this whole mess will fold like a house of cards. Plain and simple."
Hooh boy! How about that? Not often does a guy get the correct answer right off the bat. But that was one of them. There's a lot more us grunts could have come up with but the truth was enough. And it did fold. Like a house of cards and our allies, both Hmong and Vietnamese, now man the farmer's markets in Minneapolis. And the kids get straight A's in school, except for those in gangs. And down South they haul in our shrimp. All part of the community. And like us Vietnam vets, the southeast Asians are starting to make the pages of the obits. Time passes.
Best part was the rookie officers. 'Specially one we'd had for a couple of weeks and knew to be a total screwup. Snap! Gone. Not our problem anymore. Tough part was he was gonna get other troops killed for sure. Unless they got him first.
Now that's an odd thing. We had a good run of platoon leaders. And our sergeants, outside of Rayer who was more of a jerk than a threat, didn't seem much different than the rest of us grunts. Mostly good boys, one and all. Don't remember if I was aware of fraggin' back when I was in country. If so, it never crossed my mind. 'Course about the only thing that crossed that no man's land in my head was goin' home. In First Platoon we were mostly one big happy family. Even the little sergeant who said he'd kill me. Never thought of doin' him in in his sleep. Guess the idea was we were out to kill the guys in the black pajamas not the guys we took showers with.
The other thing was dope. You know, the devil's weed us GIs were supposed to smoke every chance we had. Funny thing about it was that I saw it but twice in country. First time was in orientation. There an E-6 held up a pack of Marlboros with the end of the cigarette papers folded over.
Said, "This here be some bad shit. It get you thrown in LBJ - that was the Long Binh Jail for all you outsiders who don't know where the main army stockade was and what it was called in the Nam - faster than an AK round would pass through your too slow ass. Papa-san try to sell you this shit you best bid him a fond farewell. Or at least buy some for me. Heh, heh."
Oh, our E-6 instructors were some funny boys. Mostly because they were super short, knee high to a micro. That kinda short. What they thought was most funny was that they were goin' home in a week or two. And we weren't. And that they weren't dead or maimed. Like we would be for sure. Funniest part to me was that most of us survived. And they stayed in the Army. And became alcoholics, had three wives and six kids. Hen pecked and miserable. Hoo-hah.
Oddly enough the other time I came into contact with marijuana was out on the Cambodian border. Sure enough a papa-san, goatee and all, came peddlin' up on a bike and had a baggy full of weed for sale. There we were, shirts off, pants rolled up, beach party. Outside of the concertina wire stringing' that is. And, oh yeah we were out of artillery range. Should Charlie come crawlin' in the middle of the night and it was stain your drawers time with no one to provide you with a fresh pair.
The weed was three dollah for a baggy full. Numbah one fo' dinky dau. We bid him a fond farewell. No way we were gonna smoke the devil's weed out in the middle of nowhere land. Not that we were over the top straight pussies. Seemed more like if we were gonna die it'd be nice to know which dimension we were kickin' off from.
Seemed weird that in a war zone old men with dope and young boys with popsicles were out peddlin' around on bikes tryin' to hustle a buck. What the hell was that all about? Didn't they ever see The Sands of Iwo Jima? No old coots there tryin' to sell John Wayne a bag of shit. 'Course the Duke wouldn't have smoked any.
Anyhow, that was it for me and pot in Vietnam. Didn't know anybody that smoked it. Nada. From what the movies have shown us all, that's about all GI's did, smoke dope and drop napalm on baby hospitals. Sometimes it seems like I was in the wrong war.
Back in Dong Tam the exchange of bodies continued. Who were these new people? And why did they want to come join us? Bravo Company beefed up like never before. Went to the field with near a hundred grunts. Like I'd said earlier we slowly stopped making contact. Ol' Charlie knew what he was doin'. Don't mess with the Yankee Doodlers 'cause they know how to put a hurt on you. Wait 'til they go home and then we take on the ARVNs and wipe the paddies with their sorry asses.
Can't say I blamed the ARVNs. Most of them were draftees just like us. And it seemed this was our war more than it was theirs. Yeah, the handwriting was on the wall. And the words scrawled out the boys from the north were gonna win. And us GIs weren't gonna be there to see it come tumbling down. Unless it was on TV back in The World with Walter Cronkite tellin' us just how big a mess it was. Or a few years later in the movies with the Hollywood take. Underneath the handwriting was Ho Chi Minh's signature.
Then for about ten minutes we became stars. We returned to FSB Moore one day to find a reporter from Time magazine, or maybe the New York Times, I forget which. He was dressed just like a real GI. I could understand that for we were real snappy dressers. Looked just like Sergeant Rock.
Anyhow, he was snooping around asking questions. Don't remember any officers around makin' sure we gave the right answers. Like that would have made any difference. Finally he gets around to me 'cause I wear glasses. Logical assumption. A man who wears glasses no doubt burned his eyes out reading intellectual literature. Gotta be smart and might even give a snappy answer or two. Win me the Pulitzer Prize. Marry Joey Heatherton and be a happy man.
So he asks me, "What do you do?"
Naturally I answer, "I'm a student."
Now that might sound like a pretty dumb answer. But it was true. It's not like I was trying to be a wise ass. I didn't have to think about it. That was just what came out of my mouth. And just 'cause I was wearin' the green costume and had dirt on my face didn't mean I actually was what I looked like I was.
"No. No. I mean what do you do in your Company?
"I'm an RTO."
"So, what do you think about the pull out and what do you think will happen as a result?"
I had no idea what he wanted me to say or where the hell he'd been in Vietnam but down in the Delta the answer to that question was well known by every grunt who'd ever gone to the field with the ARVNs.
"Well, we're gonna leave and this whole mess will fold like a house of cards. Plain and simple."
Hooh boy! How about that? Not often does a guy get the correct answer right off the bat. But that was one of them. There's a lot more us grunts could have come up with but the truth was enough. And it did fold. Like a house of cards and our allies, both Hmong and Vietnamese, now man the farmer's markets in Minneapolis. And the kids get straight A's in school, except for those in gangs. And down South they haul in our shrimp. All part of the community. And like us Vietnam vets, the southeast Asians are starting to make the pages of the obits. Time passes.
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