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.