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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
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.
'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.
Friday, October 5, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
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.
'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.
Monday, October 1, 2012
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.
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