Black Humor from a White Boy

     Think I'll skip to the end then go back in time for an extended anecdote:
     Really, there was no point at all to our graduation ceremony.  Seemed fitting there was no point considering the circumstances.  Nothin' about what we were doin' or where we were goin' seemed to have a point anymore.
     Barracks were cleaned and we were spiffed up.  Dress uniforms and ties, marchin' in formation for the last time on the way to an auditorium so some honcho with a metal leaf on his shoulder could tell us to do mom proud by headin' to the jungles and killin' some red, gook bastards who were out to steal our apple pies and deflower maidens down at Main Street and Vine.
     Leadin' the way back in the third row to the left side was the Zen Soldier.  We all marched at a hundred-twenty strides per minute, just like Uncle Sam said we should (I think that's even in the bible).  Zen popped along to his own one-seventeen per minute drummer (sinner man).  Fascinatin'.  I couldn't help but stare at his Garrison (name we actually called it withheld out of common decency) Cap as he weaved in and out of step.  One of the most subtle and pleasing sights of silent protest this old boy has ever seen. In my mind it beat lightin' yourself on fire in front of the newsboys for a Kodak moment by a country mile.  Probably hurt a lot less also.
     Once in the auditorium we all took seats when ordered. Then sat there for a while till The Man in the hat with the braid on the bill came out.  While waitin' in the silent dark, my mouth popped open a coupla times.  Strangely enough I even knew what I was gonna say before I actually said it.  Had given it some thought.  Both times.
     The first set of words was the warmup, "Just think guys, in only seventeen days we'll be on our way to Vietnam."  That got the grumblin' goin'.  Didn't know what their problem was.  All I'd said was the truth.  Hmm.  Maybe they didn't want to think about that.  Was I the only one who saw the humor?
     A half minute later,  "I wonder what size body bag I take?"  Figured that was sure to crack them up.
     Instead, all I got was a, "Shut the F*** up Peters!"  By now I was confused.  What kind of spoil sport GI was this Army sendin' overseas anyhow? Were we worthy of napalming babies?  Somewhere in the past I summed it up this way:  If you can't find the humor in killin' a coupla million people for no reason whatsoever, just what do you find funny?  Or something like that.
     Yup, the whole situation sucked to high heaven.  Havin' The Man come out and tell us we were diamonds in the rough that only needed the polishing of combat to make us gleam, didn't help a bit.  Wouldn't have followed that man anywhere, much less the hell on earth he was promisin' us, or the one waitin' down at the end of the final road.
     Finally, my plan became to just not think about it.  Suck it up and shut the brain down till the next three hundred, eighty-two days passed, one at a time.  And not get killed along the way.