Joe had a French last name filled with silent letters that confused Drill Sergeants no end. Why us English speakers kept all those unsounded letters in imported words remains a mystery to this day (don't get me started on feng shui. Take my word for that). And it pissed Joe off no end that none with stripes even came close. That doesn't seem like all that big a deal till you give it some thought. Should a man have been paying attention while going through high school he'd have no doubt noticed there were a lot of French words mixed in our language. Also might have noticed some names aren't pronounced as they appear. Also might have learned to ask a man he was in charge of his name should it look unpronounceable. Joe took those things under consideration and came to the conclusion he was being led and trained by the incompetent and uncaring. Probably was right about that.
As for Russ, he was always broke and appeared to be festering beneath the surface. Yeah, he was an unhappy man who saw no future where he was heading. More on him later.
Earl seemed an outsider to both races on our floor. He saw aspects of white culture that didn't seem all that bad. Saw that the war in Vietnam put us all on the same footing which was mostly underfoot. Top that off with being willing to listen to Bob Dylan and as a result, took a fair amount of grief from the other brothers. Don't know how or why but the two of us hit it off.
Me, I woke up every morning with my mouth set on high in the quiet of the barracks. Can't say that I was happy but I sure seemed to have a lot to say. I guess no longer being squad leader freed my mouth. One morning Earl took a look at me and said he was glad I wasn't his father. Added I most always had a stern, pissed-off look about me. I'd have checked his words out in a latrine mirror but by then I had a grin on my face 'cause I looked so mean. Me, mean? Ridiculous. Just didn't have that killer mentality. At least I didn't think I did and supposed the next year would let me know.
Russ was from Minneapolis, and from what his brother told me years later, very intelligent in a calculus kind of way. But he had his problems, 'specially when it came to being in the Army. Could've been a case of depression, a fear of going to Vietnam, against the war and somehow was drafted into the infantry. Whatever the reason I knew him as a quiet man who had the ability to come up with a beer or two at the EM Club most every night even though he had little or no money. Gettin' tippled on other people's money seemed one of his talents. Another asset was his affability, easy to like with nary a bad word for anyone.
We agreed to get together on leave before heading to Vietnam. And we did. That afternoon I came to appreciate the man's tolerance for alcohol. I showed up at his apartment mid-afternoon with a quart of Southern Comfort to go with the beer in his refrigerator. Russ never said if he liked what I brought 'cause he was too busy puttin' it down to get a word out more than now and then. We, I s'pose it wasn't a fifty-fifty kind of we, more of seventy-thirty kind of we, polished the bottle off but seein' as how he was still thirsty, Russ suggested we head to a local hangout, a workin' man's bar name of Pearson's, Home of the King-Sized Drink. While Russ continued with what he seemed to do well, I payed a visit to the men's room. There my body ejected as much excess alcohol as it could through my mouth and nose; not a pleasant experience even if the floor around the stool had been dry.
By that time I was ready to head home and sleep for a day or two. The problem was we'd invited his wife and Lois to meet us after they got off work. Which they did. And the three of them had a fine time while I sat in the corner of the booth doing my best to stay awake.
During our afternoon's drinking and babbling Russ said he wasn't going to Vietnam. At the time I paid no attention 'cause he was drunk. Probably would've written it off even if he wasn't. At one time or another the thought of not going must have passed though most of our consecrated, grunt heads. My friend David G., who'd done a tour in Vietnam with the Marines, told me on the phone to head straight for Canada when he heard I was in the infantry.
Also, during AIT, one of the trainees in our company went on a hunger strike for some reason or other. I don't know if any of us knew exactly why though we suspected he was against taking part in the war. And considering how bad the food was, we figured it might also be an excuse to not eat in the mess hall. More or less he was shunned by the whole company even though some of us quietly agreed with him, each in our own way. His strike went on for a week, then he was gone. Poof!
At one time or another the idea of not participating in something that might kill me had also passed through my head, so when Russ said he wasn't going, what could I say? Probably something stupid like, "Me too."
But, in the end, I went and Russ didn't. Didn't find that out for twenty years until a cocktail party conversation with his brother Dennis. Between those two times an article in the paper had caught my eye. On a back page story that would've normally have passed by unseen, I saw Russ' name. He'd died with his daughter in an apartment fire. That he was living in an apartment at an age when most of us were homeowners got me wondering what road his life had traveled.
His brother filled me in on the missing years. Russ had remained AWOL for some time. Whether the Army caught up with him or he turned himself in, I don't recall. Regardless, Russ refused to serve in Vietnam, was court marshaled and spent six months in the stockade. Time up, he still refused to go to Vietnam. Six months more. At that point the Army offered to change his MOS to Intelligence but still send him to Vietnam. Again he refused and ended up finishing his two year hitch in the stockade. The story as I recall it may not be perfectly correct but is close.
Of the men I served with, Russ returns to my thoughts more often than any other. No matter which side of the fence you sit on, it's obvious that the circumstances we faced during the Vietnam war caused many tragedies, Russ' among them. His name is not on the Wall in Washington and never will be. But, in my mind, Russ was a casualty of the war.
Then there was Earl. Like I said before, Earl was black. And also like I said, I'm a German-Swede hybrid from Minnesota. That's about as white as an American can get unless they're an albino Norwegian-Swede from North Dakota within ten miles of the Canadian border and not only can polka, but actually like the dance, 'specially when there's a concertina in the band (did I miss anything?). As for size, we were about the same as to height and weight. He was a good lookin' man. Had I been black, I'd have been outstandin'.
I'm not sure why we hit it off but bein' in the same boat at the bottom of the military peckin' order might have had something to do with it. We dressed the same, ate the same foods, played poker together and were to end up to in the same place (probably in the hereafter also since we shared some left-leanin' views). Under the circumstances, race didn't seem to matter to us. But there was still a line we didn't cross, one way or the other. Call it mutual respect or maybe a wartime truce.
'Bout the only time he was pissed at me was during our FTX, Field Training eXercise (seems the Army was pushin' the envelope when it came to purposely misspelling words). During it we spent five days in the field operating under similar conditions to Vietnam except no one got killed, or maimed, had leeches crawlin' up their backsides and it was about fifty degrees cooler. The two of us were buddied up as usual. That meant we each carried half of the canvas tent, with poles, and a sleepin' bag, neither of which we were going to use. Why we carried them didn't make a lot of sense. Didn't use 'em at Fort Lewis and sure as hell didn't in Vietnam. But we were sharin' the twenty pounds of it and sleepin' bags. Act of love, buddy-buddy, made it seem like nothing at all.
Till the Man came up and said, "Peters, you be the ace of aces when it came to larnin' up the PRC25 radio. I want you to be my man and carry that twenty-five pound baby. Give your tent stuff and bag to Greene - that be Earl - over there and come follow me."
So that left Earl with an extra ten pounds and he wasn't happy. Also he was odd man out when it came to pullin' watch at night. Instead of gettin' a half night's sleep he got, well, I don't know exactly how much sleep he got. But seein' as how he was the definition of resourceful, I figured he turned it to his advantage. Me, I got the twenty-five pound box and slept with the command group.
Night on the FTX was good practice for Vietnam. Got us good and tired, zombie like, from a day's worth of walkin' around over hill and dale with a load on our backs. And dirty. Got so we smelled and looked like the ground around us with a little sweat mixed in.
Every so often Earl and I would get together for a minute. He sure looked tired. And he let me know what he thought of me havin' a share of the good life. Like I had any control over that.
Come our last night the Lieutenant left us for a shower and a beer. Now in charge was a two tour, Sergeant First Class who ran the outfit like he knew what he was doing. 'Cause he did.
The plan for the night was to hunker down on the top of a hill. Made sense seein' as how it'd been used as a pretend defensive position since Teddy Roosevelt was training his Rough Riders. Fox holes were already dug and the hillside prepped for Metcalf to head down and work his anal-retentive magic with trip flares and barbed wire. And the boy did us proud. Spider webbed the slopes for the attack that was on the schedule for 2:47am. Seemed the Army was just as anal as Metcalf.
Our Sergeant had a plan for the night. He wanted to be warm and not disturbed by any idiot infiltrators who might be comin' up the hill. Metcalf's trip flares and barbed wire took care of that. Gave us a show to watch as the little torches were accidentally set off one by one and followed by soft cursin' that was music to Rich's ears. Keepin' the Man warm was my job. And he said I should get a partner to help out. That's where Earl came in. The two of us kept a blaze atop the rise that could've been seen for miles, infiltrators be damned. We slept good that night even though we didn't sleep much. Warm side to the fire, cold side to the dark. Rotate once in a while to even out the scorch and freeze, stoke the fire and cozy down.
The last time I saw Earl was at the 90th Replacement Unit in Bien Hoa, Vietnam. I'd just arrived and he was on his way to the 101st Airborne Division. Not a happy lad to be goin' up there where the NVA was waitin' to ruin his day.
Earl Greene was from Memphis, Tennessee. Born and raised. Over the years I've spent a few days there 'cause I worked for FedEx and Memphis was home ground for them. Each time I tried to find him through the internet or phone listings with no luck. Even tried to see if his name was on The Wall in Washington, DC. All tries came up empty. Wherever you are Earl, I hope your's has been a good life.
As usual there were the others. Already mentioned Metcalf. He was sittin' on the other edge of my double-edged sword. Yeah, it had felt good giving up the squad leader job. Still did in most ways. But it did upset me some that Rich was now my boss. That's me all over. Been that way since day one and still am. I don't want to be the Man but whoever is the Man pisses me off no end unless they think just like me. I'd have made a fine hermit. As it was, Metcalf was just like a little puppy in his new role. Not that he peed himself, more that he was innocently enthusiastic. Hard not to get caught up in his idea of fun. Why not? Training was a game. No real bullets flying. I figure Rich knew that. IT was like a Boy Scout jamboree to him and he was out to get every badge in the place.
Then there was the thunder storm in the upper bunk to my right. Good man till he fell asleep. And he could fall asleep faster than I could get my pillow fluffed just right. When the man dropped off, he was loud enough to loosen nails in the walls and ceiling. Moved bunks across the floor like one of those kid's electric football games moved players by vibration. Wasn't an every night occurrence. Some night's I figured he tossed and turned a bit fretting over all the sleep he was taking from the men around him. Maybe also wondering how many lives'd be lost with him sawing night position logs over in Vietnam.
I don't take well to snoring and can be a first class prick when I feel my evening's repose is upset. Took it as my duty to shut the man up. Maybe stifle his snores with a firmly held pillow. One night it happened. His window rattling finally set me off. I dropped from my bunk. Soon as my feet touched the linoleum, he stopped. Son's-a-bitch. Climbed back atop my perch. Fluffed the pillow just so. 'Bout the time my sigh of happiness sounded so did the thunder. I dropped from my bunk. Soon as my feet touched the linoleum, he stopped again. I don't recall if I said anything out of frustration but if I did it probably bordered on death threats. More likely crossed the border over to no-man's-land. Then a voice sounded a few bunks away and was immediately joined by several others, all were of the opinion I was a bigger pain in the ass than the snorer. I climbed back atop my perch. Fluffed my pillow and could swear I heard a soft chuckle from the bunk to my left.
During our afternoon's drinking and babbling Russ said he wasn't going to Vietnam. At the time I paid no attention 'cause he was drunk. Probably would've written it off even if he wasn't. At one time or another the thought of not going must have passed though most of our consecrated, grunt heads. My friend David G., who'd done a tour in Vietnam with the Marines, told me on the phone to head straight for Canada when he heard I was in the infantry.
Also, during AIT, one of the trainees in our company went on a hunger strike for some reason or other. I don't know if any of us knew exactly why though we suspected he was against taking part in the war. And considering how bad the food was, we figured it might also be an excuse to not eat in the mess hall. More or less he was shunned by the whole company even though some of us quietly agreed with him, each in our own way. His strike went on for a week, then he was gone. Poof!
At one time or another the idea of not participating in something that might kill me had also passed through my head, so when Russ said he wasn't going, what could I say? Probably something stupid like, "Me too."
But, in the end, I went and Russ didn't. Didn't find that out for twenty years until a cocktail party conversation with his brother Dennis. Between those two times an article in the paper had caught my eye. On a back page story that would've normally have passed by unseen, I saw Russ' name. He'd died with his daughter in an apartment fire. That he was living in an apartment at an age when most of us were homeowners got me wondering what road his life had traveled.
His brother filled me in on the missing years. Russ had remained AWOL for some time. Whether the Army caught up with him or he turned himself in, I don't recall. Regardless, Russ refused to serve in Vietnam, was court marshaled and spent six months in the stockade. Time up, he still refused to go to Vietnam. Six months more. At that point the Army offered to change his MOS to Intelligence but still send him to Vietnam. Again he refused and ended up finishing his two year hitch in the stockade. The story as I recall it may not be perfectly correct but is close.
Of the men I served with, Russ returns to my thoughts more often than any other. No matter which side of the fence you sit on, it's obvious that the circumstances we faced during the Vietnam war caused many tragedies, Russ' among them. His name is not on the Wall in Washington and never will be. But, in my mind, Russ was a casualty of the war.
Then there was Earl. Like I said before, Earl was black. And also like I said, I'm a German-Swede hybrid from Minnesota. That's about as white as an American can get unless they're an albino Norwegian-Swede from North Dakota within ten miles of the Canadian border and not only can polka, but actually like the dance, 'specially when there's a concertina in the band (did I miss anything?). As for size, we were about the same as to height and weight. He was a good lookin' man. Had I been black, I'd have been outstandin'.
I'm not sure why we hit it off but bein' in the same boat at the bottom of the military peckin' order might have had something to do with it. We dressed the same, ate the same foods, played poker together and were to end up to in the same place (probably in the hereafter also since we shared some left-leanin' views). Under the circumstances, race didn't seem to matter to us. But there was still a line we didn't cross, one way or the other. Call it mutual respect or maybe a wartime truce.
'Bout the only time he was pissed at me was during our FTX, Field Training eXercise (seems the Army was pushin' the envelope when it came to purposely misspelling words). During it we spent five days in the field operating under similar conditions to Vietnam except no one got killed, or maimed, had leeches crawlin' up their backsides and it was about fifty degrees cooler. The two of us were buddied up as usual. That meant we each carried half of the canvas tent, with poles, and a sleepin' bag, neither of which we were going to use. Why we carried them didn't make a lot of sense. Didn't use 'em at Fort Lewis and sure as hell didn't in Vietnam. But we were sharin' the twenty pounds of it and sleepin' bags. Act of love, buddy-buddy, made it seem like nothing at all.
Till the Man came up and said, "Peters, you be the ace of aces when it came to larnin' up the PRC25 radio. I want you to be my man and carry that twenty-five pound baby. Give your tent stuff and bag to Greene - that be Earl - over there and come follow me."
So that left Earl with an extra ten pounds and he wasn't happy. Also he was odd man out when it came to pullin' watch at night. Instead of gettin' a half night's sleep he got, well, I don't know exactly how much sleep he got. But seein' as how he was the definition of resourceful, I figured he turned it to his advantage. Me, I got the twenty-five pound box and slept with the command group.
Night on the FTX was good practice for Vietnam. Got us good and tired, zombie like, from a day's worth of walkin' around over hill and dale with a load on our backs. And dirty. Got so we smelled and looked like the ground around us with a little sweat mixed in.
Every so often Earl and I would get together for a minute. He sure looked tired. And he let me know what he thought of me havin' a share of the good life. Like I had any control over that.
Come our last night the Lieutenant left us for a shower and a beer. Now in charge was a two tour, Sergeant First Class who ran the outfit like he knew what he was doing. 'Cause he did.
The plan for the night was to hunker down on the top of a hill. Made sense seein' as how it'd been used as a pretend defensive position since Teddy Roosevelt was training his Rough Riders. Fox holes were already dug and the hillside prepped for Metcalf to head down and work his anal-retentive magic with trip flares and barbed wire. And the boy did us proud. Spider webbed the slopes for the attack that was on the schedule for 2:47am. Seemed the Army was just as anal as Metcalf.
Our Sergeant had a plan for the night. He wanted to be warm and not disturbed by any idiot infiltrators who might be comin' up the hill. Metcalf's trip flares and barbed wire took care of that. Gave us a show to watch as the little torches were accidentally set off one by one and followed by soft cursin' that was music to Rich's ears. Keepin' the Man warm was my job. And he said I should get a partner to help out. That's where Earl came in. The two of us kept a blaze atop the rise that could've been seen for miles, infiltrators be damned. We slept good that night even though we didn't sleep much. Warm side to the fire, cold side to the dark. Rotate once in a while to even out the scorch and freeze, stoke the fire and cozy down.
The last time I saw Earl was at the 90th Replacement Unit in Bien Hoa, Vietnam. I'd just arrived and he was on his way to the 101st Airborne Division. Not a happy lad to be goin' up there where the NVA was waitin' to ruin his day.
Earl Greene was from Memphis, Tennessee. Born and raised. Over the years I've spent a few days there 'cause I worked for FedEx and Memphis was home ground for them. Each time I tried to find him through the internet or phone listings with no luck. Even tried to see if his name was on The Wall in Washington, DC. All tries came up empty. Wherever you are Earl, I hope your's has been a good life.
As usual there were the others. Already mentioned Metcalf. He was sittin' on the other edge of my double-edged sword. Yeah, it had felt good giving up the squad leader job. Still did in most ways. But it did upset me some that Rich was now my boss. That's me all over. Been that way since day one and still am. I don't want to be the Man but whoever is the Man pisses me off no end unless they think just like me. I'd have made a fine hermit. As it was, Metcalf was just like a little puppy in his new role. Not that he peed himself, more that he was innocently enthusiastic. Hard not to get caught up in his idea of fun. Why not? Training was a game. No real bullets flying. I figure Rich knew that. IT was like a Boy Scout jamboree to him and he was out to get every badge in the place.
Then there was the thunder storm in the upper bunk to my right. Good man till he fell asleep. And he could fall asleep faster than I could get my pillow fluffed just right. When the man dropped off, he was loud enough to loosen nails in the walls and ceiling. Moved bunks across the floor like one of those kid's electric football games moved players by vibration. Wasn't an every night occurrence. Some night's I figured he tossed and turned a bit fretting over all the sleep he was taking from the men around him. Maybe also wondering how many lives'd be lost with him sawing night position logs over in Vietnam.
I don't take well to snoring and can be a first class prick when I feel my evening's repose is upset. Took it as my duty to shut the man up. Maybe stifle his snores with a firmly held pillow. One night it happened. His window rattling finally set me off. I dropped from my bunk. Soon as my feet touched the linoleum, he stopped. Son's-a-bitch. Climbed back atop my perch. Fluffed the pillow just so. 'Bout the time my sigh of happiness sounded so did the thunder. I dropped from my bunk. Soon as my feet touched the linoleum, he stopped again. I don't recall if I said anything out of frustration but if I did it probably bordered on death threats. More likely crossed the border over to no-man's-land. Then a voice sounded a few bunks away and was immediately joined by several others, all were of the opinion I was a bigger pain in the ass than the snorer. I climbed back atop my perch. Fluffed my pillow and could swear I heard a soft chuckle from the bunk to my left.
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