Me, Papa-san and Weasel occupied the second one to the left of the gate. That is if you were facing out. It was our home away from home away from home. Not much to look at. She was a wooden box with an eye level slot in the front. The engineers put the box down and built it into the berm. Us grunts covered it with sand bags. As I recall it had a short L-shaped entry, also lined with sand bags. 'Spose the idea of the entry was us not takin' shrapnel from the inside should we have a rocket attack. Sometimes when we were at Moore our daytime job was filling more sand bags. Could never have enough sand bags. Not a thrilling way to spend the day but putting stuffin' those bags beat the pants off of doin' the same with inert GIs.
Days were spent doin' shit - shit's a good word to some of the things we did and goes a long way to summin' up our attitudes - that armies do to kill time, mostly maintenance and the occasional haircut.
That brings up the man with the star in the middle of his chevrons. Our Sergeant Major was a pretend soldier as far as I could see. Maybe he'd paid his dues in an earlier time but in my short span with the 9th infantry, that wasn't the case.
Only saw the man twice that I recall. Once in a chow line at Moore when we'd just come in from the field. He walked down the column and let each of us know, individually, if we needed haircuts. Seemed something like mom asking you if you had clean underwear on in case you were in a car accident. Didn't want the ambulance crew findin' skid marks in your tight-whities when they scraped you off the skid-marked pavement. We had a word for him, though we didn't say it to his face. I recall it bein' something along the line of asshole.
The other time was when we landed at Moore from an Eagle Flight Operation. He'd come out to meet us wearing clean, starched jungle fatigues, a pistol and a couple of canteens on his utility belt. Then walked in with us like we were all the best of buddies. Passed a Lieutenant on the way who asked him, "Been out Eagle Flighting Sergeant Major?" A simple nod from our hero said, "You bet. Combat's what I'm all about."
And that was what command was all about in Vietnam as far as I was concerned. That and a bunch of men who honestly did not know what they were doing. They were just guessing. Try this, try that. See what works and what doesn't. Same as all wars I 'spose. Learning curve and all that. Guess right and Charlie dies. Guess wrong and Charlie still dies but so do we. As I saw it then and still do, in an unwinable war like Vietnam, it was all just a waste of guessin'.
After chow at Moore we'd head out to the bunkers. About as close to alone time as you could get in Vietnam. There the three of us would read or write some letters. Drink a beer. Read a book. Talk. Kill time till the sun went down and then begin our watch rotation.
Best meal I ever ate in my life happened at the bunker. Bet you'd never have guessed that. Maybe the joy of the food had to do with what we'd gotten used to over the weeks and months. After a couple of weeks in the bush my field rations had boiled down to peanut butter and crackers, piece of candy (hopefully a coconut and chocolate patty), water, coffee and canned fruit. All courtesy of c-rations. Not great but tolerable.
Earlier I'd mentioned both Weasel and Papa-san were activated Ohio National Guardsmen. Luck of the draw changed their lives in a heart beat. Seemed that back in Ohio Papa-san got to know one of the cooks. And lo and behold, almost like a fairy tale, the cook ended up at Fire Base Moore. And on the day in question, had prepared a meal for a visiting Vietnamese Brigadier General. Though what he'd concocted didn't sound all that good, it turned out to be heaven on earth. A meal fit for a general, but definitely not for grunts.
Consider it our lucky stars the General was a finicky eater - maybe he had a thing against feed lot beef long before that was considered an unhealthy choice at the supermarket - and there was a pile of food left over, most of which was round steak that had been marinated in beer for two days, then barbecued. Good or not, when we were offered all we could eat, who were the three of us to say no?
Round steak marinated in beer may not sound like it would be tasty but it was. And to me, Papa-san and Weasel it was almost reason enough to be in Vietnam. We ate all the kitchen had and could have eaten more. We were pigs. Carnivorous pigs.
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