

Memories of Nam

Published by Ron Gannon

Copyright © 2019 by Ron Gannon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

### Caught in the Draft

**Prior to Sept. 25, 1967** , reclassification day, my chief annoyance might've been an unyielding girdle Martha wore for security. The army had rejected me the first time. That made my day. Categorized as inferior didn't embarrass me. I felt glad and relieved, like getting a death row pardon until Project 100,000, a program to recruit rejects.

Robert Strange McNamara decided physical and intellectual disabilities shouldn't keep poor teenagers from dying for their country. His new standards resulted in another summons for me and belittling nicknames for American troops: "McNamara's Morons" and "McNamara's Salvation Army".

A brief second physical ensued without a happy ending. Dr. Quack's only concern seemed to be my ability to move my trigger finger. Following a few finger squeezing demonstrations that army henchman checked 'IS QUALIFIED FOR'.

I pointed at the paperwork. "What about the pin in my elbow and limited arm movement?"

"Minor impairments!" The bearer of bad news, with a mischievous grin, capped it off with, "President Johnson needs you in Vietnam."

"I ain't got no quarrel with them Viet Cong," I said, imitating Cassius Clay, heavyweight champion of the world, sentenced to five years in prison for evading the draft.

Later I dawdled away from that red brick building thinking over my options. Then it hit me. My experience working inside steel war machines led me to surmise living under water had to be a lot safer than in a jungle inhabited by people trying to kill Americans. I changed my pace and hurried to their nearest navy recruiting office. I decided to become a submariner.

A large black recruiter sat behind his desk, grinning and chitchatting with a blonde teenybopper standing by his side. As I approached he turned away from the girl and 'ruined my day'.

"We're not hiring! Try the air force...two doors down," he said, baring his teeth in a devilish smile.

I made tracks. In a jiff a friendly airman greeted me with a firm handshake. Following a hasty interview I heard the bad news.

"Sorry! Once the army drafts you, your only alternative is the marines."

To avoid infantry, I enlisted in the army to get a guaranteed school: Special Electronic Device Repairman. Enlisting meant an extra year of captivity, but it sounded like a good safe job. Being not too bright, I didn't think to ask, "What kind of electronic devices?"

**On induction day,** Oct. 24, '67, I stood au naturel with about 40 nude boys in a circle. One little guy, with purple toe nails and an ear-to-ear smile, seemed to enjoy it. His erection pointed out he might be more than just the happiest fella in the room. The officers took that as a clue he might like boys, therefore making him ineligible for military service.

In a flash two uniformed officers marched over to the excited kid. One officer grabbed him by the arm. "Come with us," he ordered, escorting the little guy, referring solely to his height and weight, out of the room.

I wanted out too, but I couldn't raise a hair. The room felt chilly. A quick glance at my fellow slaves, yes \- barely a fleeting peek, verified it: cold induced shrinkage.

No one had his chest out with pride as a doctor with gigantic hands moved toward us to check for hernias and prostate cancer, the latter being pointless, mortifying and painful. The only teen that might've taken pleasure in the torture had left the room. Also, the chances of a teenager having prostate cancer had to be zero probability - clearly a scam by lobbyist for the latex glove industry.

Dr. Hands stopped in front of me. We set eyes on each other as he put on a latex glove. "Turn your head and cough," he ordered prior to legally molesting me.

It got worse, much worse, shortly after he stepped behind me. The pervert's finger entered my body, exploring. Well, I assumed it was his finger. It felt enormous. I have no idea what gave him the legal right to probe inside my body without my permission.

Subsequent to Dr. Assailant treating us like animals or prisoners or slaves, whatever, we had to promise to defend the Constitution and to obey orders of officers appointed over us. The oath ended with us repeating, "So help me God." I omitted "So" when I spoke. Even if God is an absolute fairy tale, it didn't hurt asking for help. I knew Vietnam is real and I'll be there shortly.

**We trainees** **gathered** at a train station. I shuffled over to five recruits discussing life before bondage. Within a few minutes a tall blond teenager wearing a purple turtleneck sweater turned to me and asked, "What were you in civilian life?"

"Happy!" I replied with a broad smile while looking up at PVT Russell 'Rusty' Holland, a teenager about six-feet-four-inches tall. "I worked in a shipyard - submarines."

"U S or R A?" asked Rusty. Our service numbers began with a prefix: RA for Regular Army enlisted personnel; US for drafted, Unhappy Slaves.

Embarrassed, I glanced down and murmured, "R A."

"Romeo over there is R A, too, "said the giant, pointing at a guy chatting to a young girl. "The judge gave him a choice: the army or two years in prison."

"Tough decision!" I glanced over to the criminal wearing a black leather jacket and resembling Victor Franko, a character played by John Cassavetes in _The Dirty_ _Dozen_.

"What did he do?"

"Grand theft auto," Rusty informed me as a train moved toward us. Due to the loud hissing and screeching noises the train made while slowing down, he raised his voice enough to be heard. "Romeo stold a '66 Corvette."

Romeo and his gun moll embraced, staring into each other's eyes before kissing passionately. She lifted a leg back up, a nice shaped leg on a very attractive girl.

I think my Martha would've been there to kiss me good-by too if she didn't have to work in that damn toy factory. Pleasing me didn't seem to be on her agenda. Even after I was drafted she still refused to go on a date without wearing her girdle. Other than a way to keep me away from her forbidden region, she didn't need it.

George Medeiros, barely over five-feet-five, said, "I wonder why girls raise their leg when kissing."

"It might be her psychical stimulation member, rising to the occasion," I speculated.

A uniformed sergeant got off the train and strutted up to our Second Louie. After a brief chat, the junior officer departed. Our new overseer herded us onto the train.

I don't know if it was called a cabin, stateroom or sleeping room, but it had a small table and enough seats for four to play poker. I noticed one empty, so I settled in and made it mine during our entire trip to South Carolina. Lucky at cards, unlucky at love, fit me to a T. My three invited guess, Rusty, George, and an old man, Daniel Thibault, age 26, all lost a few bucks to their host, lucky me. Leaving home with a new deck of cards paid off.

My guess being married with children protected Old Man Dan from being drafted at a younger age. I'm confident that slow talker from Maine didn't get a college deferment, the preferred way of avoiding legalized slavery.

I would have enrolled in any college that would have me if I had known I might be drafted. A shedload of soon-to-be and disgruntled draftees fled to Canada. Too cold for me!

Dan, after losing all his money, doped me out of twenty bucks. Certainly not the first or last loan I made foolishly thinking there's a possibility of getting it back. My photo belongs next to the phrase "There's a sucker born every minute."

By nightfall we arrived at Fort Jackson.

**Before sunrise we** marched to the mess hall. In front of the entrance, a sergeant told us, "Shut up, eat up, and show up in front of your barracks by 0700."

Breakfast in a word: yucky! In two words: it sucked! In four words: unfit for human consumption! In fairness to my captors, I guess many of my fellow detainees enjoyed the powdered eggs, powdered milk and imitation orange juice. I did appreciate the bacon and toast.

Day one of processing began with that infamous buzz cut. It took less than a minute. I had to pay a civilian barber eighty cents for what resembled a 'five o'clock shadow' on my head. My light brown hair and blue eyes might've been the only things some girls thought were remotely appealing about me. Well, until I got them alone on the back seat of my car.

Young Rusty still looked good without his blond hair. Romeo, our known criminal, without his dark thick wavy hair no longer reminded me of John Cassavetes.

The army issued clothing that came with a large green duffle bag. Almost everything was green including our underwear and handkerchiefs.

I can't recall the number of lectures and aptitude tests. There were a lot of them. Finally, on October 30th, LTC Kilby shot us in the arm with a jet gun injector. My Immunization Record shows vaccines to prevent Typhoid, Tetanus Toxoid, Typhus, Polio Trivalent and the Flu. Only one soldier, Patrick Maloney, passed out after taking one or two steps. He lived and survived Fort Gordon.

### Slavery

**On October thirty-first** we were transferred to Fort Gordon for eight weeks of basic training. Our forty-eight-inmate bunkroom had a TV mounted high in a corner. It worked, but I only recall watching _Laugh-In_. It must've aired at 8 PM (2000 hours) because all lights were out by 2100 hours. At that time CPL Brown, a young Steve Harvey look-alike with smaller lips and no moustache, stood in the doorway to his small room and yelled, "Lights out!"

Before 0500 the phrase 'rise and shine' woke me from a dream involving Tuesday Weld or a nightmare comparable to _Stalag 17_. That loud and annoying wakeup quote was repeated often. We were prisoners. There was only one known criminal, Romeo. If we escaped, we would be hunted down and possibly shot for desertion akin to that other reclassified draftee, PVT Eddie Slovik. Excluding the loss of freedom, being overworked and underpaid, it wasn't that bad, but still a bit more like prisoners or slaves than on the job trainees. I doubt if we were free men by any definition.

The law, 1915.88(d)(1)(i), demanded employers to provide toilet privacy at all times. "When a toilet facility contains more than one toilet, each toilet shall occupy a separate compartment with a door and walls or partitions that are sufficiently high to ensure privacy." That "Do as I say, not as I do" behavior common among our policymakers comes into play. We had no privacy - notta! Our long row of toilets, spaced about two feet apart, didn't even have a small partition, let alone a stall with a door required outside of prisons and barracks. Part of our training included treating us inhumanly or was our government so poor it couldn't afford partitions between toilet bowls? We were NOT animals. Do not believe Darwin unless he explained why all monkeys didn't evolve.

It was illegal to use tear gas "as a method of warfare" against women and children, but no big deal gassing drafted teenagers. Calling it a method to prove gas masks work properly isn't logical. Trust me; we were willing to take their word for it and go without the risk of lung damage. Instead, SSG Alvin W. Floyd, a drill instructor, ordered us to enter a gas chamber filled with gas and to take off our masks for thirty seconds. Although I disliked Floyd at that moment, it saddened me recently to read about his death in Vietnam, killed by a rocket propelled grenade.

**My basic training experience** differed from what I had watched on TV and at the movies. Yeah, we were marching and running daily and drill instructors constantly yelled, "Get down and give me ten", but no hitting.

Nothing happened to me for refusing an order. I presume PVT Faison thought it would be funny if I acted lovey-dovey with my weapon. Faison had to hug and kiss his firearm in front of our platoon. I wasn't about to. Anyhow, Faison blamed me for his rifle hitting the ground. An apparent afterthought and no way do I suspect animosity - we were friends. My favorite onlooker, Vincent Faison, had laughed at all my witticism during our first week of BT. I must have made three or four quips that he and perhaps only one or two others thought were funny.

Possibly some of us, white boys, looked alike to CPL Brown. That large black drill instructor took a couple of steps away from Faison and stood directly in front of me, ordering PVT Carter to hug, kiss and tell his rifle he loves it. I just stared back at my drill instructor.

Faison realized Brown's mistake and told him my name's Gannon - not Carter. Brown leaned forward, squinting at my last name sewed onto my green fatigues. Then he gave me the order, repeating it several times. I ignored him, not saying a word. Ultimately he gave up and walked away. He went on teaching us things to do with our M14 rifle that didn't involve romantic gestures.

So much for that likely myth about punishments meted out for disobeying any order given by a superior. Granted, the majority of recruits would carry out orders - no matter what. Sometimes even sensible directives during training were ignored without any effort to comply.

Stephen Kline, a heavy cigarette smoker, time after time stopped jogging and sat on the ground during our mile runs. Other than some screaming and a little name calling, I never observed any reprimands. I recall looking back and seeing Kline sitting at ease and lighting up a Lucky a few times. I'm sure on the big movie screen that cigarette would be knocked out of his mouth in a heartbeat. Perhaps the tobacco lobbyists ruled over our military leaders. That might explain that popular military phrase 'Smoke 'em if you got 'em'. An order shouted more than a dozen times every day during my basic training.

Now and then the movies might get it right. The blanket party scene in _Full Metal Jacket_ comes to mind, but the only one I witnessed involved only four thugs and they used their fists, not a bar of soap wrapped in a pillowcase as depicted in that flick. We had one sleep attack in our barrack. Hosey, our largest and strongest trainee, held a blanket over the upper torso and acne covered face of a short chubby kid while three bushwhackers clobbered his flabby body.

"Punch his face, Fuster," Hosey said to the attacker standing by his side.

Franklin Fuster socked pudgy boy twice, on target, prior to running to his bunk directly above mine. The victim sat up sobbing until CPL Brown showed up and escorted the kid out of our barrack. I never saw him again. Tom Hosey, our big bully, died in combat seven months later - possible bad karma for what he did to a defenseless kid.

According to a military report, in Vietnam Tom's company came under intense automatic weapons fire from Viet Cong in an enemy bunker complex. His Company commander and squad leaders were wounded during the first few moments of contact. Completely disregarding his own safety, Tom attempted to reorganize his squad for an assault on the enemy bunkers. Jumping up from his concealed position, Tom aggressively charged the fortifications. Private Hosey maintained contact with the enemy until he was fatally wounded by the hostile fire. The Silver and Bronze Stars were awarded to him posthumously. The Tommy Bryan Hosey Memorial Highway in Mississippi was named in honor of him.

I heard two different reasons for Blemish Boy's thrashing. The sleeping target might be gay or suspected of stealing something out of one of his assailant's footlocker. It's kinda ironic since one of his assailants had stolen my army dress hat. In fact, I turned Fuster in to First Sergeant Earl Shaffer. He didn't give a muck. Many years later I read 1SG Shaffer was fatally wounded as he began to render medical aid to another soldier in Vietnam a few weeks after Peter Garms died from a grenade accident.

Fuster, in possession of my size 6 3/4 peaked cap, was issued a size 7 for his large round head. That didn't matter to 1SG Shaffer; so I dealt with the sneak thief myself.

Franklin Fuster, a draftee from Puerto Rico, and I shared a shelf above our clothing rack. When I pushed my hat back to my side, where it belonged, Fuster approached me. We exchanged loud criticisms. I started it by calling him a thief. Before I knew it, three Puerto Ricans stood by his side. It was like a scene out of _West Side Story._ I, Baby Ron, stood waiting for some Jets to help make it a fair brawl. My gang, smoking cigarettes and watching from afar while Fuster, an uglier version of Chino, and his sharks were ready to rumble.

"Jets!" I almost groaned, glancing at my fellow American inmates. Faison, my good-buddy lying on the bunk across from mine, just grinned at me like a Black Cheshire Cat. My other band of comrades waited patiently for the battle to commence. I disappointed them by going to bed. It was just a hat! Muck it!

Up to that point I had felt sorry for the 22 Puerto Ricans assigned to our company. Mostly because they weren't American citizens, yet they were drafted. That didn't seem right. Even more surprising they all had two to four years of college and had lower than the average American General Testing scores. Perhaps due to English not being their first language. I only recall six boys in our entire company with higher GT scores than my measly 108. We were Company E - smarter than none. In all fairness some of the questions were a bit unfair. I know of at least two I got wrong.

A hamburger and soda cost a dollar and ten cents. The burger costs a buck more than the soda. How much does the soda cost? Without thinking I check off ten cents and rushed to the next question. I remember paying ten cents for a soda - never a nickel. Trick question! Okay, a dollar five is a buck more than five cents. I should've done the math.

The grammar quiz started with what appeared to be an easy correct or incorrect question: "A rose smells good like a flower should." A snap thanks to that popular slogan 'Winston tastes good like a cigarette should'. What 19 year old kid back then knew 'as' a cigarette should is correct grammar- not 'like'? An English teacher should have informed us of the bad grammar being aired on TV and posted on billboards.

Knowing those two brainteasers would have brought my score over 110 since 43 silly questions summed up the GT score: officer material. Not too shabby for a high school grad who never studied and missed a lot of school days.

Imagine, only six out of the 198 trainees in our company had a score above 110. One kid from PA had a 138 GT score. Mensa accepted that as proof as being in the 98th percentile back then.

I knew E Troop's scores since I was a clerk for a day, filing records. Out of curiosity I checked the GT scores.

SFC Griffin assigned me the job after one sly question. After a comment about his visit to my city, Pawtucket, RI, located 40 miles south of Boston, Griffin asked, "How far is Boston from the capital of Massachusetts?"

I responded with Boston is the capital of Massachusetts. He must have been testing my listening ability. I imagine PVT Garms might've given the wrong answer due to his noticeable hearing problem.

Orders involving right and left confused Peter Garms. If the DI shouted right face, Peter turned to his left. If the DI yelled left shoulder arms, Peter's rifle landed against his right shoulder. One morning SFC Griffin said, "Anyone who thinks he's not going to Vietnam raise your right hand."

Peter's left hand went up immediately. After noticing the rest of us with our hands up, he held up his other hand.

Griffin smiled. "At Ease! Smoke 'em if you got 'em." Our senior DI strolled away, shaking his head while murmuring, "Wishful thinkers!"

I turned to Peter. "Maybe you took your oath with the wrong hand - a possible way out of the army."

My mannerism and expressions probably made Faison smile. Peter just looked at me with a big smile. He didn't say a word. I don't recollect hearing him talk to anyone. I recall him grinning most of the time, never saying a word. As far as I'm concerned Peter was proof it wasn't possible to fail basic training back in 1967. He didn't come close to passing the hand-over-hand trips across the horizontal bars. We were required to go down and back numerous times in less than a minute to pass. Poor Peter usually just hung on a bar with both hands and never made it to the end. I doubt very much if he ever ran the mile within the allotted time required. If he had failed BT, he might've been living by the end of the following year.

PFC Peter Garms, a Finance Specialist, died on his third day in Vietnam. During a training exercise the hand grenade he was ordered to throw went off too soon. Several months later SP5 Timothy T. Williams, WO Nicholas L. Venditti, and WO Wilbur J Vachon III were killed during hand grenade training. Makes me wonder why a clerk and two helicopter pilots needed additional grenade training after basic training. Especially since M79 grenade launchers were more accurate and a lot safer.

.

**The Sergeant stood** in front of a classroom with two dozen seated recent in-country arrivals. His first lecture involved grenade safety. To get everybody's attention he held up a hand grenade and pulled out the safety pin. Then his expression changed from one of amusement to distress. "Uh-oh," he said as he tossed the live grenade on the floor.

The blue grenade stopped under a long narrow table in front of the first row of soldiers. It exploded, killing Timothy Williams and wounding more than a dozen others. Wilbur Vachon and Nicolas Venditti died days later.

Rumor had it that the army didn't do much of an investigation prior to ruling it an accident. The Sergeant responsible wasn't charged with Negligent Homicide (Article 134, UCMJ). No charges! His name according to the grapevine is strictly confidential. So is the name of the Vietnamese civilian employee and part-time Viet Cong who swapped grenades after painting the live grenade blue, the same color as inert grenades.

Our military leaders took pride in a high enemy body count. At first they even bragged about killing more than a hundred Viet Cong during the My Lai invasion. Accepting their enemies' culpability involving American deaths and injuries was avoided whenever possible. Kinda like cheating on the war score.

The soldiers wounded by the grenade were ineligible to receive the Purple Heart since it was ruled an accident. Therefore they were denied the metal and all those special benefits only available to injuries caused by the enemy. For instance, a Purple Heart precipitant will never be responsible for co-pay at VA medical facilities.

### A Bad GI

**Shortly after my 6th birthday** mom divorced dad to marry a co-worker, Jim, a redneck convicted of rape while serving in the army. Moving away from my blue-eyed, blonde girlfriend, Joyce, to live with that crude southerner ticked me off. He made loud noises when he ate and sat on the toilet with the door wide open. More than a few times he pulled down my pants to spank me possibly for his amusement, only. Teasing me might've been one of his favorite passtimes. His cruelest taunt came several months after my 7th birthday. Jim told me Joyce had been run over by a bus.

"No sa," I replied angrily, knowing he hated me for not eating broccoli and other stuff he tried to force down my throat before smacking the back of my head.

Grinning, he held up 'Life' magazine and pointed at a shocking color photo of a child wearing a brown velvet bodice and a satin plaid skirt. A conspicuous puddle of blood settled where the girl's head should have been.

"You're lying," I said to my wicked step-father. "That's not her."

After slamming the magazine onto the coffee table, Jim gave me a hard backhand across the mouth. Stunned, I landed back against the sofa and held a hand over my bloody fat lip for a few seconds prior to heading for the bathroom mirror.

"You better not tell your mother - you little bastard," he yelled, slurring his words.

The reflection in the mirror upset me. It looked horrible. A large piece was missing from a front tooth. Jim's wedding band had chipped it. That open space between the teeth looked hideous; worse after a bright silver cap covered that chipped tooth. My days of smiling ended until I could afford to have it replaced.

By age ten I got back at that brutal deviant. Jim considered himself a great chess player, beating him would be a hard blow to his ego: payback. So I challenged my tormentor to a game of chess. My torturer moved quickly, obviously underestimating his inferior opponent: a mere child. When my knight captured his queen, he lied. "You're supposed to say 'check' when my queen is in danger." The cheater replaced his queen.

In fear of losing part of another tooth, I didn't call him a liar. We both knew 'check' only applied when my piece moved in position to capture his king. It didn't matter: his inattentiveness cost him the game. If looks could kill, I would have died that night. The lost was a severe blow to his ego. I felt goooood. He didn't flip over the board or knock over the pieces or beat the Hell out of me. Well, he did punch me a few times, but not till the next night.

My sister, Barbara, pregnant at the time, poured a can of beef stew into a frying pan. A door opened and Jim, inebriated, entered the kitchen. "Where's that little bastard?"  
The little bastard, me, sat alone on the living room floor watching 'The Mickey Mouse Club' chiefly due to a big crush I had on an older girl, Annette Funicello. The drunk staggered toward me, pointing. "You're the reason your mother nags me all the time."

Suspecting danger I got on my feet, attempting a getaway. Finally it was revenge of the creature just because I whipped his butt in chess. The sore loser caught me in the kitchen and tossed me on the floor. Then he sat on me, punching my face until my rescuer, Barbara, attacked him with the pan of stew. The pan struck the back of his head - stew flew everywhere. In an instant he was off me, pursuing her.

She gripped the long handle of the frypan with two hands and held it behind her head, ready to swing. The perv stumbled toward her. With her back against the refrigerator, she swung again. He blocked the blow and landed a hard punch to her stomach. Barbara collapsed to the floor.

I jumped on Jim's back, wrapping my arms around his neck. While he tried to get me off him, Barbara got up and kicked him somewhere between his thighs. That stopped him momentarily, giving us enough time to get out of the house.

Barbara made it to her fiancé's house a block away. Danny was 23, 6 years older than Barbara. When he heard about the punch to Barbara's stomach, he was off and running. After pounding Jim a little, he threw him down a flight of stairs, resulting in a broken leg. That made my day. Seems like Jim's army training didn't help him.

**Jim had enlisted** in the army at the age of 18 back in 1940. Five years later in Hanover, Germany, at about 0300 hours on the12th of April, he and another private, Melquiad 'Mike' Uribe, entered the dwelling of Otto Ernst, a German civilian. Otto, his wife and two female refugees occupied two connecting bedrooms.

Loud knocking on his bedroom door woke Otto and Mrs. Ernst. Otto got out of bed, opened the door and faced a bright flashlight and pistol pointing at him. Jim, intoxicated, used his gun to force the couple to escort him and Uribe into the other bedroom.

Ursula Helm, age 17 and a virgin, sharing a bed with a 62-year-old woman, opened her eyes to see a drunken American soldier coming toward her. In a matter of seconds Uribe tore off the girl's nightshirt and everything else she had on. Then he proceeded to rape Ursula while Jim pointed his weapon at the other three captives. After Uribe finished, Jim took his turn. Later on Uribe raped Mrs. Ernst and Jim raped Ursula, again and again during their five hour invasion.

Instead of the death penalty, both men were sentenced to life in prison. I have no idea how much time they spent in confinement, but within 7 years, Jim was released, working at the Brown & Sharpe Mfg. Co., and stealing my mom away from my dad. Until recently, I didn't know anything about Jim's army history. Apparently nobody in my family did. It's doubtful my aunts and uncles would've played penny poker with Jim so often if they had known his secret. Watching them play so many Saturday nights when I was eight, nine and ten helped me learn the game. Eventually, when I had a few pennies of my own, they let me play. I played a lot of poker while killing time growing up and serving time in the army.

### Basic Training

**After week 6 of BT** I spent many nights playing chess in CPL Brown's room. Our senior drill instructor, SFC Griffin, hosted a few poker games in his room after our sixth week of training. About that time we were given the green-light to visit the enlisted men's club to sample their 3.2% alcohol beer. Underage drinking, gambling, and visiting nearby prostitutes were a few perks of being in the military. I heard some of the local working girls off base charged only ten dollars for their services. That could've been a rumor, but their whereabouts were declared **off-limits** and conveniently posted on bulletin boards - kinda like those yellow pages in a phone book.

SFC Griffin and other DIs, drill instructors, would lead us in song daily, while marching in unison. They would sing the words in bold letters and we would chant the words in italics: **You had a good home but you left,** _You're right_ , **Jody was there when you left,** _You're right,_ **Ain't no use in goin back,** _You're right,_ **Jody's got your girl in the sack,** _You're right,_ **Sound off!** _One, two,_ **Sound off**! _Three, four_ , **Bring it on down** , _One, two, three, four, one, two...three, four._

We trotted in step to different songs. After the DI sang the following lyrics, we repeated them: I don't know but I've been tol, Eskimo Pussy is mighty cold. Then we had to sing that sales pitch song in an attempt to make us do something foolish: _I wanna be an airborne ranger, living a life of danger._

**At first a lot of time** involved shinning our boots and brass belt buckles. Our footlockers had to be neat and the contents arranged in order, but nowhere near as time consuming as polishing two items for morning inspections.

Shooting was fun. First, we were taught how to zero our M14, which meant to adjust the rifle's sights for accuracy after firing 3 shots at a small target 25 meters away. Then we had a week of practice before qualifications. The M14's remarkable precision would enable me to hit a dime 25 meters away. I might've been able to hit a barn 10 feet away with that awful M16, an inferior weapon a couple of pounds lighter than the superior M14. Training us with the M14 and then issuing us a M16, an inaccurate weapon with a serious jamming problem, in a combat zone probably made sense to someone. Perhaps the manufacturing and sales of the M16 had a bit to do with it.

Final testing with the M14 began inside a foxhole, called the supported phase because the rifle is rested on a sandbag. Within 20 seconds I took out four popup silhouettes too far to my right front - not intended for me. Misses! Eventually my brain employed enabling me to knock down 28 single targets, easily. No misses! Then out of the foxhole for the unsupported phase, standing, knelling and lying on the ground.

The final firing phase involved multiple targets popping up at the same time. A total of 28 targets - our position started with unsupported and ended in the foxhole, the easiest. Too bad the stiff from another company refused to hand me the magazine holding 16 rounds before and during my allotted time to shoot at popup targets. I have no idea why he didn't pass me the ammo.

Moments after climbing out of the foxhole I informed an officer about the mishap. He examined my chart and informed me it didn't matter: I had enough points for expert. The lieutenant marched away without questioning the retard who retarded my chances to win the High Marksman trophy. I did manage to bag the PCPT trophy.

As an incentive, CPT Boose promised a three day pass and fifty bucks to the high scorer of our final Physical Combat Proficiency Test. It consisted of five undertakings: Run, Dodge and Jump, Grenade Throw, 40-Yard Low Crawl, Horizontal Ladder, and a Mile Run. I scored 494 out of a possible 500. If I had run the mile in six minutes or less, I would have had a perfect score. I did receive a small statuette of a man flexing his muscles, but NO fifty bucks and NO three days off. Although there were over a 198 witnesses to the captain's pledge, I didn't have a legal bitch according to our army lawyer. I did have a lawsuit when they attempted to change my guaranteed training.

Military Police? No way! I ain't gonna be an army cop. No electrical schooling as promised in writing then set me free. I didn't care for their communistic lifestyle. Supposedly my one arrest for possession of alcohol by an underage person prevented me from obtaining a confidential security clearance required for my Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) training. I wasn't buying that baloney since I already had a confidential clearance when I worked on nuclear powered submarines. The same government rejects or gives the go-ahead. Their bluff didn't work. Eventually I received my orders for Ft. Belvoir, VA.

**Mind trips into the past** can be complicated by flawed memories, especially recalling names. My basic training book has names along with photos, but no such memento publication was available after completing advanced army training. I recollect some names but not all. I do remember Miller, Berger, Teddy and a few others.

My first night in Ft. Belvoir, VA, I noticed a chess match going on at the far end of the barrack. I strolled over and stopped between two spectators sitting on the lower two bunks. They observed the game, occasionally chatting with the players. The chessboard and pieces rested on a black footlocker placed between two competitors: Miller, tall, handsome and muscular, and Berger, short and ugly. I checked out the contest for a spell prior to asking the two onlookers, "Did anyone challenge the winner?"

They ignored me. I repeated the question. No response.

Miller's dominance made it evident Berger didn't have a chance that game or in any future games. "Care for some competition?" I asked Miller. "I had over a fifteen hundred rating in high school."

Although he ignored me, completely, his eyes-rolling and his body language spoke to me. His rudeness puzzled me since I never encountered anything like that before. Not saying another word, I turned and sauntered away.

Teddy, red hair and freckles, spoke with a southern drawl, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Don't take it personal. They're like that with everybody." He sat on his bunk, smiling up at me as I approached. "They're New York Jews acting like they believe they are the master race."

I glanced back at the unfriendly four. No reaction! They had to hear Teddy, but not one of them batted an eye. "I guess it's true you southerners don't care too much about Jewish people?"

"Only the ones who treat us like trash, as if we're inferior to them. They've been treating me the same way they treated you the moment I got here," Teddy said, loud and clear. "When someone treats me badly, I don't pretend it's okay."

I could see the hatred Teddy had toward those insolent recruits while thinking New Yorkers have a long standing reputation of being rude and obnoxious. I gave Teddy my best "I know what I'm talking about" expression and said, "It has nothing to do with them being Jewish. Many Christians and atheists from New York are the same way. Did ya ever watch _Naked City_? Most of the characters were rude, obnoxious, and talked funny, just like them. That TV show was filmed entirely in New York."

**Our electrical training** didn't start until Monday, five days away. There weren't many of us at that time sharing that barrack. In the meantime we were kept busy with lectures and work details. I had the misfortune of being stuck on a job assignment with those four New Yawkers - just the five of us. Again, they were unfriendly, unsociable and rude to me. When Miller brought back just four cokes, it was like I didn't exist: that stung a bit.

The next afternoon Berger sat down next to me in a lecture theater. Without delay he knocked my arm off the armrest between us in a very hostile manner. Then we bumped forearms and elbows a few times until I gave in. At that time I decided the first chance I get I'm going to fight that punk.

By Sunday night there were four fights involving inmates living in our barrack. The first battle started over a no to a handout request. "We're paid the same. You can buy your own damn smokes," said the southern white boy to Twiggy, a skinny black kid."

Twiggy and two of his black chums, Beastie and a guy from another barrack, taught the cigarette tightwad a lesson that night. Scrooge ended up in sickbay, badly beaten. Apparently none of the white soldiers cared. Well, there were perhaps only a dozen of us at the time. No comments that I'm aware of, notably, no talk about a little payback. However, the scrawny beggar got his ass kicked, severely. I thought he was beaten to death at the time.

Beastie resembled Sonny Liston except for being a few inches shorter and grumpier than the boxer. Nightly he'd tread heavily to the shower and back, naked, whereas the rest of us wrapped a towel around our waist to and fro. Twiggy and Beastie appeared to be the best of pals up to their dispute.

I have no idea what started that Friday night clash. In route from the shower I observed Twiggy out cold on his back while a large completely nude brute sat on him, pounding his mug. The twig appeared dead as Beastie continued to deliver powerful punches. The twig's head bounced off the highly polished floor after every hard blow.

Slamming into the creature came to mind, but I decided to seek help instead. It was early that night and most of the inmates were out partying in nearby D.C. or at the Enlisted Men's Club. Since Miller was large and reachable I requested his assistance. He was quick on the uptake. Not a word or glance in my direction as he hurried over to Beastie whose fist had to be sore by then.

Words of wisdom like 'life without parole' or 'death by firing squad' probably persuaded King Kong to stop punching Twiggy. Nevertheless, he did and rose to his feet. His semi, I don't mean a semi-automatic weapon, might be a tip-off that he enjoyed the walloping immensely. A few more blows it might've been as hard as it could get. Come what may, Beastie trudged to the shower to clean up or for some self-loving.

Miller headed for the exit as I asked, "Aren't ya gonna see if he needs mouth-to-mouth?" He ignored me, as usual.

The Saturday night fisticuffs came as a surprise. When I left my two bunkmates inside the 007 Club, they were chummy cohorts on the prowl. Plenty of game in Washington, D C, the best I had ever seen. Girls galore! Too bad I had KP early the next morning, otherwise I would have been there and possibly no squabble.

Tweety Bird Sylvester inadvertently woke me out of a sound sleep. He had noticeable swelling by his left eye. "What happened to your face?" I asked from my upper bunk.

"Price hit me," replied the chubby kid with a round childlike face.

"Why?"

"It was over a girl."

Incomprehensible! Price had the looks of a male model: strong chin, high cheek bones, full lips, eyes like Tony Curtis, broad shoulders and no body fat.

Tweety Bird was flabby with slightly protruding teeth. Competing over a girl made no sense to me. I went back to sleep.

**KP with Berger** turned out to be a pleasant surprise - not the KP. KP sucked! Talk about slavery. We were paid about three bucks a day and KP was a wearisome 14 boring hours. No time and a half for those last 6 hours as required by law if you weren't slaves. The joy amounted to a chance to square off with PVT Berger without his cronies. It turned out to be a pleasure at the end of a long day - outside the back of the mess hall, just the two of us. Certainly not a match made in heaven.

Fighting someone shorter and lighter could be one of life's guilty pleasures if you dislike the runt and there's little resistance. No contest! The little arrogant bully didn't put up much of a fight. I landed a punch to his face, and then it turned into a wrestling match - kind of. He lunged at me, head down, a few times and each time I threw him to the ground or into metal trash cans. I could have hurt him, but didn't. He appeared to be in decent psychical shape. Berger's fight for the armrest racked up admirable - other than that, a cream puff.

Following KP and a quick shower I caught some zzz's. Completely exhausted, I slept soundly flat on my back moments after hitting the sheet. Later on my loud snoring disturbed a few bunkmates trying to get some shuteye. One of them shook me out of my coma, ending my zonk out time for the rest of the night. Their snoring prevented me from falling asleep.

Sharing a room with up to 49 people added to the injustices imposed on young boys held captive by their government for no apparent reason. And how could anyone justify paying us a measly E-1 pay of 95.70 a month minus 6.70 for life insurance and clothes cleaning?

Those eight weeks of training involved the repair of mine detectors, searchlights, and secret night vision gizmos: infrared binoculars and the starlight scope. A god-awful surprise that meant we might be fixing electronic devices in Vietnam.

A picture ID was required to enter the classroom involving the starlight scope. The only hush-hush invention we worked on. Evidently, that was the only reason I needed a confidential clearance.

The curriculum was a piece of cake that ended April 5, 1968, the day after the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis. Rumors had us being shipped to D.C. with rifles and NO ammunition. Other solders were, but not us. From what we read in the newspaper all of our nightclubs were destroyed by fire. My favorite, the 007 Club, was gone forever. Just the thought of the 007 Club makes me think of the name of a James Bond character played by Honor Blackman.

Upon graduation all but one of us were promoted to E-4, raising our monthly salary to $177.90. Our top graduate didn't get a raise due to a traffic violation: ridding his motorcycle on base without a helmet. Prior to that big raise in pay my E-2 pay was 106.20 with a take home pay of 91.06. We were making far less than minimum wage and still had to pay federal taxes: 8.97.

My next duty assignment meant serving a year in Nam, so I was given a thirty day leave. Finally time to spend with my true love, I thought, but I had been dumped without notice. My Martha had a new beau.

It didn't take too long for him to unload her. I'd bet gazillions her girdle had oodles to do with it. On a Sunday night Martha contacted me about getting together on the upcoming Saturday. I agreed, looking forward to seeing her again.

I'm very punctual. She never was. The first two times that afternoon she told me to come back in thirty minutes. The third time I found her in the backyard paying baseball with her two nephews. She laughed, not remotely embarrassed for being so inconsiderate. Instead of saying good-by I waited patiently for Martha to change her clothing. We spent the day together and I took her to a drive-in that night. As expected, she wore her girdle. The fact I'll be heading for Vietnam in seven days didn't persuade her to give me a friendly hand. The next night I babysat with her while her sister went to the bingo.

Martha and my father saw me off at the railway station. I don't recall how he knew I would be there. I think I was six the last time I saw him.

### Good Morning, Vietnam

**Grandma Ford once told me** , "Ronnie, you have stars in your eyes. That means you're gonna die young." Her premonition struck a cord as I viewed Vietnam at night from an airplane many miles away. The sight of rockets and red tracers being fired from helicopters, scattered fires and mortar flashes on the ground, and lightning flashes, triggered depression. I thought my life would be ending soon. The faces on my fellow passengers persuaded me to conclude many were thinking the same.

After landing in Bien Hoa a blast of heat hit our bodies the moment we stepped out of the plane.

"Kinda hot for nighttime," I said, looking up at a soldier to my right.

"Welcome to Hell," he replied.

A horrible disgusting odor made me want to cover my nose and mouth.

"Whatta stench!"

"It's the smell of death," said PVT Tall Kid, "or a serious sewage problem."

"Hope that odor's coming from a cesspool and not the mess hall," yelled out PVT Fat Boy, walking behind me.

**After we were set up** in groups of four a corporal wearing a helmet and flak jacket ordered us to run, run, run, and hurry, hurry, hurry, across the wet runway toward a parked bus. We could hear small explosions coming from the direction of the bus. The trot lasted about a minute or two. Then we were crammed inside that hot motor vehicle with wire mesh screens covering all the side windows - perhaps to keep us from escaping or to prevent stuff like hand grenades from getting in. I sat behind the driver, looking out the window.

Two grinning military policemen stood outside tossing firecrackers. One noticed me and pointed at three black body bags lying on the damp airfield. Then he made a 'cut throat' motion, moving a finger across his throat. I guess that's his way of indicating there were three dead soldiers in those bags.

The air conditioner wasn't on, so I leaned toward the driver and made a request for air. He ignored my plea. I muttered, "My congressman will hear about this."

A terrified boy sat down beside me. His sweaty hands held a Bible hard against his chest as he murmured a prayer. His body shook like a popular Don Knotts' TV character.

"Where ya from?" I asked.

He mumbled, "Pennsylvania."

He wasn't in the mood for a friendly chat. So I left him alone while the bus drove us to the 90th Replacement Battalion located inside the Long Binh Post. Upon arrival we got to sleep on folding carts in a huge hot room.

**After breakfast we** were assembled and informed that we had to change all our greenbacks to military payment certificates, commonly referred to as 'funny money'. Possession of stateside American currency (greenbacks) was illegal and a court martial offense. Our Monopoly money was worth more than the Vietnamese legal tender with an exchange rate of 120 piaster or piastres or dong for a buck. We needed both on base: funny money for the PX and refreshments at our EM Club, dong or piaster for our Vietnamese barber and hooch girls. Our funny money was changed periodically - making the old currency worthless and screwing any of the Vietnamese workers in possession of it. Without any prior notification the Vietnamese weren't allowed to enter our bases on the day the new currency was issued to us in exchange for our old MPC.

Completed in Jan 1965 the Long Binh Post emerged as the largest military base in Vietnam with enough housing to sleep more than 50,000 soldiers by 1968. The amenities included at least 3 large concrete swimming pools, a massage parlor, miniature golf, and a skeet shooting range. I can't think of any feasible reasons why enlisted men didn't have a decent toilet facility at the 90th replacement center by 1968.

The officers and nurses had privacy and flush toilets. Even sinks to wash their hands. Our toilet facility was a small building with holes drilled through a long board with a barrel under each hole - of course no privacy between those holes. At the end of the day we burnt the feces in those barrels. There had to be a reason, unknown to me, why we were treated that inferior to officers and nurses - almost like slaves 24/7 while in Nam.

Our 13th amendment abolished slavery and provides that "Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction."

**My orders came** day 5 in Nam. My brief stay filling sandbags, burning feces, and pulling guard duty at the 90th ended. Next stop: Headquarters, 5th Battalion, 2nd Artillery - Home of the Dusters, Quad 50s and Searchlights, just a short ride several miles north.

Sp4 Eric Drinkhouse picked me up in a jeep that had a large searchlight mounted on the back. The ride down a two lane paved road seemed safe, but the dirt road to the barbed wire gate had me concerned. Plenty of bushes for VC to hide behind until ambush opportunity. I kept my eyes wide open and Eric's M16 rifle ready for action. Perhaps being a Boy Scout taught me to be prepared.

The compound was long and narrow surrounded by barbed wire fences. At one end a fifty feet high lookout tower stood out like a sore thumb. It was located by the link fence that separated us from South Vietnamese soldiers. Just north, about a hundred yards away, Vietnamese families occupied a small village, other than that - flatland, bushes, and rice fields.

A guard swung open the gate.

Drinkhouse drove a short distance and parked the jeep by a large sign with the insignia for Battery I, 29th Artillery, Searchlights. I followed him onto wooden decking to the orderly room to check in. Shortly later I left with a M16 rifle and four magazines of ammo. Eric lead me to my new home.

The lower half of our hooch was wood and the upper half encased screening. Beyond the screen door were a dozen bunks, six in a row evenly spaced on each side of a large open room. At the far end of the building were two small enclosed rooms with wooden doors. Drinkhouse led me to our two-man bunk room. Inside there were Eric's small refrigerator, two black foot lockers and two metal wall lockers.

I tossed my belongings onto my bunk and departed. Party time! I had arrived during the grand opening of our own rubber lined swimming pool. Plenty of hamburgers and hot dogs to munch on, and beer, kept cold in a trailer full of ice. I had a few cans of Budweiser - only 3.2 alcohol but still mighty good.

The most memorable small talk that afternoon involved the accidental death of John Mattheisen, an 18 year-old kid from Montana. While fooling around with his rifle in our barracks somebody warned John to be careful. He responded with, "Don't worry! It ain't loaded." Then he placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger. The kid had made his final mistake.

The festivities by the pool ended with the fully dressed captain responsible for the rubber lined swimming hole, our doctor, being thrown into the water. CPT Doc Hollyward, a Californian, had the whitest teeth I had ever seen: 6 shades whiter than most people not in the acting business.

Doc, flashing his ultra bright smile, ascended out of the water. He was an officer and a gentleman who didn't display any signs of irritation. In fact he remained friendly with the four privates who had lifted him high into the air before tossing him headfirst into the cold water. A court-martial offense: Article 89 or 90 of the UCMJ.

One of the jokesters responsible for the Doc's soaking was PFC Richard Overman. I observed him playing chess that night inside the barrack. Naturally I challenged him to a game after he defeated a perceptible beginner. Overman was a decent player but after two fairly quick games with me he stated I should play Doc. He had never beaten Doc and thought I might have a chance.

Overman met with the captain the next day and arranged a meeting: that night, sevenish in front of the Officer's Club. I arrived early. Doc, already there, stood by the door, flashing his pearly whites. I shaded my eyes with a salute. After introductions we shook hands as he asked me how I was.

"I'm fine, thank you, Captain," I said, smiling and feeling nervous. Some overly handsome men with soft, womanly hands do that to me. Trust me, I'm not remotely homosexual. "How ya doin', Captain?"

"Fantastic, Ron," said the friendly doctor, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Richard told me you had a chess rating in high school?"

"Yeah, just over fifteen hundred," I replied, still nervous even after he let go of my hand and shoulder. "I played on our chess team."

"Shall we?" The Doc opened the door and made a gesture with his hand for me to enter first.

His club was smaller than the EM Cub but nicer. It even had a pool table. We immersed in a game of chess at a small square table by the back of the room. The bad looks from the staff and two lieutenants playing pool made me feel uncomfortable. I did not like being there.

"May I get you a mixed drink or a beer, Ron?" Doc asked, politely. So absorbed in the game he didn't notice the unfriendly looks I was getting. He heard my order, left the table and returned shortly with two beverages without paying and no mention of running a tab. Perhaps another perk for officers: free booze.

I felt somewhat second-rate. Perhaps it was due to the Doc's ultra white teeth, great complexion, his manly size body, his enunciation and his grammar. I, barely over five-feet-eight, weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds, had a prominent New England accent and needed major work on my grammar. I came from a city where 'hod' is the opposite of soft, 'lodge' is the opposite of small, 'furst' comes before second and 'youse' is the pleural of you. 'Potty' instead of 'party' might be more confusing to someone not familiar with our native language. Just image what a girl from California might think if I asked if she's ready to 'potty'. Anyway, that's the first time I felt inferior and not belonging.

Doc tipped over his king shortly after 2100 (9 PM). "Good game, Ron," he said, smiling and reaching his hand across the table. "How about a rematch tomorrow night?"

I nodded and said, "Sure!" Thinking I didn't enjoy being there or with him - despite the fact he was friendly and courteous. He had fetched me three Budweisers, feasibly to improve his chance of winning or an attempt to take advantage of a young boy. Many pretty men happen to be gay - especially the ones from California.

**Early Monday morning** I awoke to the sound of a door opening. An attractive Vietnamese girl entered my room. Wan revealed a friendly smile that drew attention to her beauty before starting one of her six-to-four gigs: sweeping the floor.

Maid service cost me two dong for Wan's six-day workweek. She cleaned my room, washed my clothes, made my bunk, and shined my boots, but no backrubs or services strictly forbidden on base.

Wearing a green T-shirt and green boxer shorts, I got out of bed and grabbed a green towel out of my footlocker. Then I headed for the group showers and outhouses located near the center of the compound.

After breakfast I reported to the motor pool for a job assignment. Since we were non-union, we were jacks-of-all-trades or prisoners or slaves. Drinkhouse got the gravy job: driving to the Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon to pick up a Sergeant returning from R&R. Three fellow inmates and I were ordered to build a sandbag wall along the south side of the long garage.

The bags were made of a green woven polypropylene material just over two feet long. It took a little extra work to make our protective barrier the best looking one on base. Each bag filled with sand was slammed to the ground a number of times to make it flat, then placed evenly as if we were constructed a large brick wall. When finished it was nothing like those fat bulky eye sore walls. Our wall was a masterpiece! By the end of the day I was exhausted and extremely hungry.

The mess hall was crowded with soldiers and Vietnamese workers. Most of the soldiers sat at cafeteria-type tables or stood in line. The Vietnamese took care of the trays, cups and wiped the tables fairly clean.

I grabbed a yellow melamine slotted food tray and got at the end of the chow line. Two small pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans were plunked onto my tray just like in a prison movie. I raced to an empty table, set my tray down and hurried over to a milk dispenser - big mistake. By the time I returned to the table my tray had vanished. I glance around looking for the food thief - no suspects. One PFC gave me a fleeting look before returning to his or my food. If I interrogated him, I think I would've heard him say with a fake German accent, "I know nothing!" So I got another tray and stood in line again.

A short corporal, standing behind the food, squinted as he pointed at me. "I recognize you. What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Someone took my food when I went for milk."

"That's your problem. Put the tray back and get out of line.

A tall sergeant stepped next to the corporal. "What's the problem, here?"

"He's trying to get seconds."

"I didn't get to eat anything. Someone took my tray of food."

"Put the tray back. You're holding up my line."

There wasn't a fast food establishment or a Subway on base. I would have gladly paid for another tray of food. Clearly those militants weren't willing to sell me a leg or breast or even a couple of small wings. So I had to settle on a few cups of milk and wait for the EM Club to open. Then I ate plenty of Beef Jerkies.

I was sitting at the bar and chewing on my fifth Jerky at twenty cents a pop when Drinkhouse shuffled over to me.

"That fuckin' Tilo," he declared, laughing and shaking his head. "A farmer was squatting by road. Tilo left him a gift as we drove by...a grenade." Drinkhouse, laughing out loud, sat down on the stool next to mine. "I thought his eyes were gonna pop out of his fuckin' head when he saw it. Boom! Bye-bye gook. The funniest thing I've ever seen."

I wasn't grinning. "What was funny?"

"The look on his face when he saw the grenade. His eyes! From small to extra large. Like in one of them cartoons." Drinkhouse appeared confused, pondering for a moment. "Ya had to be there."

Frankly, I didn't believe him. "Gotta go!" I slid off the barstool. It was time to shower and get ready to meet the doctor.

Doc and I played another game at the same table as the night before, but this time the bartender was the only other person in the joint. Still, I didn't enjoy being there; not just because the bartender kept staring at me. I don't recall Doc suggesting another date for a rematch or ever playing another game of chess with him. Perhaps someone made a complaint about me being in the Officer's club. Maybe he was ordered not to hang out with enlisted men. I read that was against military law.

Fraternization can be a criminal offense under Article 134 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice if the commissioned officer knew the person to be an enlisted soldier and fraternized on terms of equality. My guess a slave owner could have drinks with his slaves. An officer is allowed to go to a ballgame with enlisted men but can't have drinks with one or two enlisted men later. The logic being he might order someone else to die for his country instead of a friend.

**About my fourth** week in Nam a mortar attack occurred close to 10 PM. It started during a tense confrontation scene near the end of 'Return of the Gunfighter'. The movie stopped and we were ordered out of our small movie house. As I stepped out, I heard the 'thump' sound of a mortar hit close by just outside the compound. Then there was a 'whining' sound of one going over our heads followed by another 'thump'. Thirteen mortars exploded outside our compound, none hit inside.

During that mini-attack, the Bible clenching 'Don Knots' personality I had met on the bus ran by me yelling for his mommy. Yes, he was screaming, "Mommy!" That was the last time I saw him. If screaming for my mom would have gotten me sent home to my sweetheart, I would have been running along side that kid if I had any sense. Martha was worth crying for.

I missed her and believed that I would never see her again. If it weren't for 'Catch 22', I would have been right. Lucky for me it was a great book. Sadly, the soldier who gave it to me died hours later.

**After placing** a bulb, a small red relay panel, a converter, a thick cable and a few small tools into a large cloth bag, Drinkhouse briefed me about my first job in the field. "That's all you'll need to fix most problems. Be at the chopper pad by 0800. Get a ride on any vehicle leaving for a nearby base or wait for the next chopper dropping off mail."

Drinkhouse handed me the bag. Then he complained about Spec. 4s and below are not eligible for a flying metal. He moaned about having more than enough air hours to qualify and that our staff sergeant logged out many times without getting on a chopper. Yet the fat guy who rarely left his office was awarded an Air Metal.

The helicopter arrived on time. I got on and sat a few feet behind the door gunner. It was quite scary flying ninety mph just above the tree tops. That way we were less likely to be seen by the enemy. Anyone not deaf could probably hear us from miles away. In less than an hour we landed at the small fire support base. Except for the Black Virgin Mountain miles away there was nothing but desolated flat land as far as the eye could see.

The job didn't take long. Waiting for a ride back wasn't bad, I got to relax and bask in the sun. That beats the heck out of working in the motor pool or filling sandbags. The field wasn't bad unless it was attacked on. Base camp was more out of harm's way, better protected.

"That's what I thought," the searchlight operator said as I put the bad bulb in my sack.

"That's the third bulb in three hundred and forty-three days."

"You must be a short-timer."

The tall black PFC smiled. "A wake-up! I'm flying home tomorrow." He wore an unusual necklace, fairly long with large animal teeth spaced an inch or so apart.

"When ya leaving this place?" I glanced around the area.

"This afternoon," he roared, grinning like a cheerful man about to leave a combat zone.

"I guess I'll be going with you."

"The guy with glasses sat around reading books for days."

"I didn't bring anything to read."

"I got a book you can have, 'Catch-22'."

**That paperback** was so good I decided to stick around and read it until the next helicopter arrived. Otherwise I would have been on the ¾ ton truck that left that afternoon. I heard later all three soldiers on board died. We could barely hear an explosion and small arms firing several minutes after they left. I gather the truck went over a land mine and then an ambush.

Although just an acquaintance, I felt grief-stricken. Still I found a shady area to sit and read Catch-22. Two days later a whirlybird flew me back to base camp. I was looking forward to a hot cooked meal that didn't come out of a small green can and a cold shower. The waterworks at that small base amounted to the end of a garden hose suspended in air and spraying water commencing at 1800 (6 PM). You had to wait in line for that skimpy cleansing.

I missed the luxuries available to base camp warriors. Compared to those combatants living in tiny bunkers and eating C-Rations, I had it made and knew it. We ate decent food in a mess hall, slept on a thin mattress inside a building, watched television (only one channel) and a movie playing almost every night in our small theater, a swimming pool, a club, a PX, and maid service.

Those hooch girls worked hard for their money. A PFC knocked one petite girl unconscious. The hard blow came from a GI accusing her of stealing a pair of socks. She vehemently denied it. The six-feet-two-inch black man didn't waste anytime cold cocking her. That crazy soldier didn't have to pay her anything extra and there were no criminal charges. He did end up in LBJ (Long Binh Jail) but that was for shooting four American soldiers the following week.

The girl beater had a disagreement with a large white racist inside the EM Club. The redneck kicked his ass in front of a large crowd. That must have been embarrassing and painful. The winner of the fight was escorted over to the orderly room to file a report about the incident while the loser went to his hooch to fetch his M16 rifle.

The pissed off guy entered the workstation blazing. He just emptied his full clip, shooting everybody in sight, and returned to his hooch as if nothing had happened. Fortunately, nobody died, but two were seriously injured. After being told he would never walk again, a soldier with a spine injury swore he will find the shooter some day and kill him.

About a week later I was back out in the field repairing a searchlight and ended up spending the night there. That was a harrowing experience. I was in a bunker reading when all hell broke out: rifle fire and lots of it. The thought of hundreds of Viet Cong attacking us almost swayed me to stay in the bunker. Under a cot seemed like a good safe place, but I put on my flak jacket and helmet, grabbed my rifle and hurried to the perimeter.

Numerous white flares lit up everything. My heart raced as I got behind a pile of faded brown sandbags and aimed my rifle. There weren't any targets. "Where's Charlie?" I thought. Everybody fired their weapons on full automatic. The noise was deafening. Combat helmets should come equipped with earmuffs.

Abruptly, the shooting stopped. All the soldiers moseyed toward their bunkers.

I rushed over to one chap and asked, "What happened?"

"Another mad minute."

"What?"

"Our captain wanted to see how much fire power we can put out in a minute's notice."

"Thanks!" I said and murmured, "Scared me half to death."

The next morning I sat on the back of a truck en route to Tay Ninh. I thought about putting my fingers in my ears in case we hit a landmine and decided not to. I didn't think the soldier sitting across from me would appreciate my attempted humor.

In Tay Ninh I caught a ride on a cargo plane heading for Long Binh. First the bodies of dead soldiers were loaded on, followed by Officers, NCOs, civilians, and finally low ranking GIs. I sat on the floor next to several bodies enclosed in black rubber bags. Two Vietnamese civilians, about my age, sat above me in harness type seats that ran along the side of the plane. They talked in Vietnamese and laughed a lot. I wondered why are American soldiers on the floor by our dead while they sit above us? First come, first serve, okay. However, being treated as if we were inferior to Vietnamese civilians bothered me. I would have loved to hear LBJ explain why we were second rate. Even though it was common knowledge when the subject matter was about Nam he lied a lot.

Prior to winning the 1964 presidential election President Johnson said, "We are not about to send American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing for themselves."

Shortly after winning LBJ said, "Peace does not come just because we wish for it. Peace must be fought for."

I think LBJ's comment came after Senator George McGovern said, "We seem bent upon saving the Vietnamese from Ho Chi Minh, even if we have to kill them and demolish their country to do it.

The picture of the world's greatest superpower killing or seriously injuring 1,000 non-combatants a week, while trying to pound a tiny, backward nation into submission on an issue whose merits are hotly disputed, is not a pretty one." —Robert McNamara in a memo to President Lyndon Johnson on May 19, 1967.

About the time I was drafted I heard protesters chanting, "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?"

**I made it** to my room before nightfall. Drinkhouse welcomed me with some bad news. "There's a rat in our barrack. They think it's you." He seemed pleased.

Rumor had it that someone complained about drug use in our barrack. Since I didn't indulge in such foolery, I might be the fink. I doubt if anyone whined about drug use. 'They', the ones identifying me as the main suspect, might've been jealous of me. Considering my semiprivate room and easy access to a jeep and truck it might be warranted. I decided to spend some time with the drug users.

After watching 'Laugh-in' on the small black and white TV in the big room, we headed for the perimeter to smoke a little pot. Personally I preferred the ten cent beer at our club, but I felt I should participate in their little drug ritual at least once. That beats getting my throat cut or getting shot in the back by one of our own during a firefight.

I smoked marijuana with the boys, not bad, pretty good actually. However, I should have passed on the LSD. It sucked big time. Afterwards, I couldn't sleep at all, and I wanted to kill somebody who had wronged me. Lucky for me, and him, I couldn't get out of bed. The room kept spinning and everything was a bright red. An agonizing hangover the next day persuaded me NEVER do psychedelic drugs, also known as hallucinogens, again.

We had some Sundays off. I tried to sleep, but someone kept pounding on the door. "Go away," I moaned. My new cronies wouldn't listen. One of them heard about a new whorehouse. Knowing I had access to a 3/4 ton pickup truck, they wanted a ride \- not my comradeship.

Since I had the DTs, PFC LaRock from Newport, RI, drove. I sat in the cab on the passenger side. The other three rode outside in the back. It took about twenty minutes to get to our destination. On the other side of this tall black metal fence stood two red brick buildings.

Something didn't seem right to me. I grabbed my rifle and said, "Let's get out of here. I got a feeling something is gonna happen. They're not whorehouses."

"I'll find out," LaRock said as he opened the truck door. He got out and strutted up to the tall metal gate. I gripped my rifle, ready for combat.

The door on one of the buildings opened wide. Two nuns stepped out.

"Whatta front," someone yelled from the back of the truck.

"Are there any boom-boom girls here?" LaRock asked the nuns.

The nuns looked at each other, confused.

The place turned out to be a nunnery. So we drove to 100 P Alley, a known prostitution area outside the Ton Son Nhut airbase. The girls charged 200 piasters, Vietnamese currency, or a cartoon of cigarettes. (It used to be 100 piasters thus the nickname.)

LaRock parked the truck on the airbase. I went to the PX to get a pain reliever for my headache while they visited the locals. After gulping a couple of pills down with a bottle of coke, I returned to the truck and waited.

I thought about Martha and a picture she had mailed me. That picture bothered me. A guy took it. I could tell by a reflection off a mirror in the background. My sweetheart wore panties, a bra and a see-through nightgown. Nothing else. No girdle! Without it, she was at risk and the guy taking that photo might've hit the jackpot. Since that turned out to be the last letter from her for a long, long time.

My pals returned. I drove, heading for our base camp.

"She had hair! Not the normal six or seven long ones like most Vietnamese women," declared LaRock. "She had a full bush."

"She might be part French," I replied. "They were here long before us."

"She jumped up and down on the bed and said 'Sock-it-to-me'. Like that girl on 'Laugh-in'."

"Goldie Hawn?" I inquired.

"No, Judy Carne. Goldie's the dumb blonde."

I guess he had fun. More than likely I would have joined them if I didn't have the headache. I probably would've needed a shot of penicillin like two of them did a few days later. It's nice to have sex without a condom, but sometimes there's a penalty.

**The following weekend** LaRock, PVT Wilson and I sat at a small square table watching two advertised strippers perform on stage just several feet away. We had front table seating. They were NOT strippers. The EM Club was jam-packed to see some skin. Unless you were an arm or a leg man, you were probably disappointed. Those Vietnamese girls stripped down to bikinis - two piece swimwear. They didn't even flash a breast or two. That kind of entertainment was strictly prohibited on base. In fact Anne Bancroft's brief displays in 'The Graduate' were edited out of the movie prior to showing it on base.

As the girls left the platform LaRock stood up. "I gotta take a wizz." He quickly headed for the door as SGT Tilo Margarita staggered toward us.

Tilo resembled a fatter and uglier form of Thurman Munson, a New York Yankees catcher, without the mustache. Overtly drunk, he sat down with his back toward the stage, facing LaRock's empty chair. He turned to Bob Wilson, on his left. "Fetch me a beer, Private," he ordered, slurring his words.

Bob was tall with a thin narrow face, small ears and thick eyebrows. He kind of resembled a twenty year old Clint Eastwood. "How come you're not at the NCO club, Sergeant?" Bob asked.

"Came here to see some pussy. Nothing, except you two twats. Ya think ya can take me?"

"No!"

"Then get me a fuckin' beer before I beat the shit out of ya."

Bob hesitated for a moment before standing. He looked at me and asked, "You ready for another one?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks!"

LaRock returned to his seat. "My dick burns," he moaned.

"Maybe the girl with the French bush is talking about it behind its back," I said, making a lame attempt at humor. He didn't get it."

"Huh?"

"It's a popular idiom. Ya know, someone is talking about it behind its back."

"Fuckin' jerk," shouted Tilo, spraying saliva in my direction. "Its ears are burnin', Asshole. Let's arm-wrestle for a sore buck." He placed his elbow on the table, arm extended upward, opening and closing his huge hand.

"No thanks!" I replied, turning to LaRock. I whispered to him, "Never arm-wrestle ugly men," showing him the hand jerk-off motion. "Too much self-loving makes the arm grow stronger."

Tilo stood up, leaned over and slammed his closed fist into my left temple.

I saw stars but somehow managed not to fall off my chair.

Tilo wobbled out of the club without saying a word - not even a good-bye.

**Shortly before noon** the following Monday Tilo seized me to ride shotgun. I had a hunch it had something to do with his assault. Neither of us spoke for the first few miles. Tilo yanked out a pint of whiskey from God knows where and removed the cap while resting an arm on the jeep's steering wheel. He pushed the bottle toward me, offering me some. I rejected his feeler with a frown and head shake.

"It's for my cold." He gulped down half the bottle. "There! Cold all gone now."

Unexpectedly, Tilo took a sharp turn off main road. It occurred to me he might be planning on killing me. My rifle was ready if he had reached for his .45 caliber handgun strapped to his side.

Instead of gunplay it turned out we were heading for the air force base for lunch. The food was better there. No doubt about that. Fresh fruit, a salad bar and different size plates were available. We didn't have to eat off slotted trays. It was almost like eating in a cafeteria stateside. The square tables for two even had table cloths

"I eat here every chance I get," said Tilo, chewing on a big chunk of steak. "The air force serves the best food around here. Much better than the shit they serve us. That's real milk," he said, pointing at the glass of milk in front of me, "not that powdered shit they serve on army bases."

Creamed chipped beef poured over toast, commonly referred to as 'Shit on a Shingle', was served a couple times a week at our base camp. Chicken, ham, meatloaf, hamburgers, franks and beans, and a fat chewy meat we called water buffalo were the other main courses. I don't recall any steak or seafood, ever, being served on an army military base.

After a satisfying meal we drove to the Tan Son Nhut airbase. Tilo parked the jeep and led me to a nice outside eating and drinking area. He ordered a couple of beers and babbled on and on for awhile. A Vietnamese girl, probably six or seven years old, interrupted his drivel. While holding a small pad and a pencil, the pretty child challenged Tilo to a game of Tic-tac-toe.

Tilo grabbed the girl by her hair and yanked her head back. "Get away from me you little bitch." Instead of releasing her he yank her head farther back and held it there. He smiled as if he was really enjoying the moment.

The girl's eyes were tightly shut and her mouth wide open, obviously in pain, but she didn't cry or shed a tear.

I pleaded with him to let her go.

Tilo grinning and staring at the girl turned slowly toward me, without the grin he asked, "You think you can take me, Pard?"

The thought of grabbing my rifle and pointing it at him crossed my mind. Not a wise thing to do with all those witnesses wearing military fatigues. No one offered me or the girl any assistance.

"No! Even if I could, I wouldn't. Hitting an NCO is probably a hanging offense."

"Not quite," he let go of the girl after yanking her head back enough to cause her to loose her balance.

The girl landed on her back with her head hitting the cement. Without delay she was back on her feet. "G I number ten thousand," she shouted, pointing at Tilo. That meant he wasn't nice - number one denotes the very best. Normally the much older girls called soldiers number 1 after sex. I guess they lied a lot.

Her finger didn't shake as she backed away slowly, staring at her attacker.

Tilo stared back, grinning ear-to-ear.

Suddenly, the girl turned and ran out of the area.

I took a sip of beer.

Tilo glared at me. "What's bothering you? Is it that little punch? I was drunk. You were insubordinate. Would you have rather I brought you up on charges for insubordination?"

"Nooo! Why didya pick on her? She's just a kid."

"Yeah, right! A kid that would kill us first chance she got."

Tilo downed the rest of his beer and then gave me a fierce look. After pondering a bit he said, "Take that fucking smirk off your face before I knock it off."

I don't recall another word until after we picked up a soldier returning from R & R.

**Massie and Torres operated** a searchlight in an ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) compound somewhere south of Saigon. My brief stay there lasted less than a week. It turned out to be pretty good duty. We could come and go as we pleased. No supervision. We didn't have to answer to Big Brother.

Their favorite little restaurant served ice cold Ba Moui Ba beer, Vietnamese for thirty-three. It came in a bottle identified with a "33" in a red oval on the label. Rumor had it that it was brewed at 33 degrees and served best at 33 degrees. We had guzzled quite a few beers up to the moment Massie threatened to kill a South Vietnamese soldier.

Massie, a good-looking muscular boy, flirted with one of the waitresses. He frequently visited that place and knew the girl well. It appeared she liked him. One of four Vietnamese soldiers at a nearby table appeared to be bothered by the affection the girl showed Massie. He bitched and moaned in Vietnamese to his male companions apparently about Massie and the girl. We all were armed with M16 rifles.

To my surprise, Massie, without his rifle, got off his chair and stomped over to the guy. He pointed at the guy and shouted, "Shut the fuck up or I'll kill ya!"

The loud mouth Vietnamese guy looked scared.

I'm sure I did too. I grabbed my rifle. "Yup, I'm not going to make it," I thought. Yeah, I might have been called the eternal pessimist if others knew what I thought most of the time.

Massie turned and strolled back to our table. He didn't appear to be concerned, not bothering to look back. I was worried, eyeing each of them, ready for action, but nothing happened. We had at least another round of drinks and left without killing anyone.

We dropped Torres off at a whorehouse and headed for our ARVN compound. We were supposed to be back before nineteen-hundred (7 PM). That's not just a curfew - it meant the South Vietnamese soldiers could open fire on anybody or anything outside the compound after that time.

Our jeep stopped in front of the gate a little late. Plenty of daylight left and they knew who we were. However, they aimed their rifles at us. A few of the soldiers were smiling. Massie got out of the jeep and stumbled toward the gate. A Vietnamese lieutenant aimed his handgun at him.

"Open the fuckin' gate before I shove that gun up your fuckin' ass," Massie shouted, slurring his words.

I slid down in the jeep - prepared to meet my maker. I was sure I was going to end up just like Bonnie and Clyde, bouncing around in that jeep in poetic slow motion. The lieutenant pondered while Massie yelled obscenities at him. Of course Massie could tear that skinny diminutive man apart in a fight, but this guy had the upper hand - his gun.

The officer made a wise decision by letting us in. Massie showed him a middle finger as we drove through the gate. In addition to that he yelled, "Asshole!"

I nodded thank you to the officer and thanked God in my mind. I was very grateful making it through that day alive and equally thankful the next night.

**It was my turn** at the brothel. For fifteen dollars in Vietnamese currency I got a room and a girl for the night. She brought a portable radio with her. Little did I know that her tuning in the Rolling Stones singing 'Satisfaction' turned out to be somewhat of a prophecy.

Due to the extreme heat, plenty of beer, a condom, and a talkative girl, my first infidelity was lasting an extremely long time. I thought she was complaining, not to me but to a girl in the next room. It was annoying. I asked, "Can I have a minute of your time?"

She stared up at me with a confused expression and asked, "Qua?"

"Talk to your friend later, sil vous plait." I requested, with a little smile.

"Qua?"

I put my finger to my lips, meaning 'be quiet'. She thought it meant something else, I guess.

Gabby appeared mad. "No can do," she roared as she pulled out from under me. She grabbed her clothing and stormed out of the room, leaving her radio behind.

"Ah-huh, collateral!" I started to sing to myself while getting the radio, _"I didn't get_ _no...satisfaction. I tried and I tried. No, no, no. But I got her... radio, hey, hey, hey."_

The door opened. A Vietnamese boy, about 12, entered the room. He asked for the radio.

I hugged the battery operated security item and shook my head. " _No, no, no_. When she finishes what she started," I demanded.

The adolescent left. When he returned he knocked instead of entering the room like he did before. I opened the door and observed an old M-1 rifle being pointed at my face.

"GI die now," the boy cried out.

In a flash I retrieved the radio. After he left with my only collateral, I pushed the bed against the door. I didn't have my rifle because somebody might kill me for it. That was the logic told to me when I was dropped off.

I didn't sleep at all that night. Just tossing and turning.

**The next morning** a woman handed me ten dollars and lead me downstairs for a free breakfast: a bowl of noodle soup. Apparently ham and eggs weren't an option. Come to think of it I never seen or heard a live chicken while stationed in Nam. The eggs served to us on base and stateside were powdered. Not good and always too watery. Yuck!

My gabby grande horizontale came in with a couple of her girlfriends, all three girls laughing and chatting. While pointing at me, Gabby said something in Vietnamese. The other two girls laughed. Then Gabby followed her cohorts up the stairs, shaking her butt side-to-side as she glanced over her shoulder, smiling at me. That body language or body beckoning might be construed as a four-way offer. Too bad a quiet piece was more than likely out of the question. I imagine three playmates yacking would be more distracting.

**Before long I took over** for another searchlight operator away on R&R. I got to see a couple of snakes up close. Too close.

During the afternoon of another temporary assignment I sat on a wooden crate inside a bunker reading by a window like opening - no glass or screen. My eyes left the page of the paperback to gaze outside. Less than three feet away half the body of small yellow snake stood upright - like a cobra about to strike its prey. We stared at each other until he stuck out his tiny tongue. I stuck out mine. That must've scared the Hell out of him. He turned and slithered away. After placing the book down on the grate, I hurried out of the bunker.

Outside Spec. 4 Doug Goldstein approached me and asked, "Ready to play?"

"Sure! R A's bunker?"

"No, Girando's Hideaway."

On the way to our poker game I told Doug about the snake.

"Sounds like a two-stepper," Doug responded quickly. "It bites ya and two steps later you're dead."

I doubted if an 18 year-old high school drop out from Chicago knew much about venomous snakes. The snake feeder might. And there he stood twenty feet in front of his pet's wire cage, shirtless, with his huge boa constrictor draped over his shoulders.

That's the first time I saw Squeezer out of his coop. No like! The last time must've been shortly after it had a large rabbit for lunch. You could notice the rabbit's shape inside the snake - just like in the cartoons, but not funny to me. Mostly the snake man fed his reptile live mice. I recall those poor little rodents burying their heads in a corner of the cage, trembling while the giant serpent slept.

Doug invited Snakeman to our game. He accepted the invitation and then, instead of putting Squeezer out of harm's way, he placed it on the ground. "Gotta get my Luckys." He turned and headed for his bunker while Squeezer made a move toward me.

In a flash I was sitting on a sandbag wall until Snakeman returned to put that damn slithering creature back where it belonged.

**For several hours** just five of us sat around the small poker table, an empty wooden ammo crate turned upside down. Goldstein, Snakeman, and R A, tall and muscular were shirtless. I wore a green T-shirt. Sgt. Girando, dark complexion, short, and wore his full army fatigues. Our host, Girando, was friendly until he lit up a smelly cheap cigar, inhaled and then blew the smoke at me.

I winced, waving the smoke away from my face. "Jeez, that stinks, Girando."

"What did you call me?"

I mulled over his question for a moment then made two attempts at pronouncing his name.

"It's Sergeant Girando, Gagnon," he said, folding his cards to my raise.

"It's Gannon, Specialist Gannon," I said, showing him my bluff before raking in a substantial size pot.

"You can call me whatever ya want, Sergeant," R A said, stretching his huge arms above his head.

Goldstein shuffled the cards. "Call me Specialist Goldstein from now on, Sergeant. I'm not a brown nosing lifer." He stared at R A while dealing out the cards.

R A picked up his cards and examined them. "And proud of it. Shoes on my feet. Food in my belly. When I re-up, a six-thousand-dollar bonus. What more can a man ask for?"

"A night with Ann-Margret or Tuesday Weld. Actually just three minutes." I reached for some money. "I raise!"

R A stared at his cards, flexing his muscles. "I'd settle for anything with a little public hair."

"It's pubic hair, Dickhead. Bet or fold," Girando said with the cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He waited for R A to fold his cards and then said, "I call!"

It didn't take long to build a decent size pot. It was down to Girando and me when the first mortar hit, outside and not in close proximity. Almost immediately Girando gathered up all the cash in the pot. Realizing Girando had lost a lot of his money and the mortar attack could be considered a combat situation I didn't protest. He might consider anything I said as an act of mutiny and be authorized to shot me. Why chance it?

We grabbed our rifles and headed outside to behind a sandbag wall a few feet in front of the entrance to Girand's Hideaway. We stood there watching an instant NCO sit in his jeep, laughing and pointing at a motor flying by above his head. Another sergeant ran over to the drunk in an attempt to persuade him to go to a safer place.

The drunk jumped out of his vehicle and danced around like he was boxing somebody. Eventually he jumped back into his jeep and drove away. Nobody was hurt that late afternoon. I still recall the smiling face and size of that drunk. I'm not sure if that happened at Bearcat, one of many camps I visited. I spent time at a dozen military bases during that one year sentence.

Many years later I saw photos of Senator Chuck Hagel in Nam. He looked like that drunk. Chuck, in an interview, stated he attended an NCO school shortly before leaving Nam and promoted to a so-called instant sergeant while stationed at Bearcat. All the photos I've seen of Chuck in Vietnam showed him as a SP4 and SP5 - none wearing PFC or sergeant stripes. It makes no sense to me because he was about to leave Nam and the pay was the same. SP5s and sergeants, both E-5s, with less than 2 years of service were paid 211.50.

The drunk, those two snakes and very poor poker play made that visit memorable. I won over a grand and scheduled to leave the next morning after that mortar attack. That night I slept with my rifle next to me. I thought somebody, mainly Girando, might slit my throat for a thousand bucks. I wouldn't feel safe until the money was deposited in The Chase Manhattan Bank in Long Binh. I trusted my fellow searchlight operator, Doug, but nobody else.

Doug had a dream about buying a Harley to travel all over the USA visiting his GI buddies. He owned that motorcycle at the time of his death, according to his obituary, but he never visited me in Rhode Island or Connecticut.

I don't remember my dreams, but I know most of them, anytime, night or day, involved a pretty face more than eight thousand miles away. _I wanted her in my arms, with all her charms, in the night, I needed to hold her tight, all I could do was drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream. I didn't want to die, and she was the main reason why._

**Back in safer locality** , I hopped into my jeep and drove to the Long Binh base to make a deposit. Afterwards I did a little skeet shooting, played a little miniature golf and checked out a new massage parlor with a steam room. The house of rub was huge. It was kinda costly since the girls were paid so little. I had to pay three bucks for less than a twenty minute rubdown. No sex, no touching the working girls and no happy ending. Not even a friendly hand. I'm sure a few girls were more than willing to earn a few extra bucks. If caught, the penalty had to be severe. If not, American boys would've left a house of joy singing, _"I love the massage girl, she could make me happy, happy, flowers in her hair, flowers everywhere."_

Compared to the average grunt in Vietnam during the late 1960s I had it pretty good. Of course I still didn't want to be there. The summer months seemed to fly by despite the fact that I didn't get any letters from home. That was depressing. No response to my letters to Martha. I loved her. It hurt not knowing why she wasn't writing.

After I hadn't heard from my only pen pal for a few weeks her younger sister, Candy, started writing me letters. Apparently she knew Martha had another beau, probably that guy with the camera. I, _a lonely soldier away from home through no wish of my own,_ had been forgotten. Candy probably heard Bobby Vinton's #1 hit, 'Mr. Lonely' and decided to cheer me up or hint that I've been dumped.

I wrote Candy several times asking about her older sibling. Candy never responded to any questions regarding her sis. It had to be that guy in the photo. I knew it! If Martha hadn't removed that damn girdle, we might've been still together. I kinda doubt that. Fifty-two weeks is too long for an attractive 19-year-old girl to go without dating. It's possible, but my guess highly unlikely. Some guys hit on eye-catching females even when those girls or women are on a date.

**Tilo had left** Vietnam. I kept busy at the motor pool being a jack or jerk of all trades. I recall replacing brake shoes and doing oil changes. Mostly I was still a traveling man. I vaguely recall being stationed with airborne rangers in a small unprotected area on top of a hill or mountain. Free beer inside a tiny so-called EM club was the only amusement. Our food came in small green cans. I don't recall a shower - not even a water hose.

There were plenty of dark skin people referred to as 'Montagnards' living nearby. Most of the women walked around topless and lived in shacks surrounded by barbwire. My stay in that area was brief - one or two nights too many.

**My next assignment** was almost as bad due to a 175mm Howitzer. It fired many times over the petite bunker I shared with a few small four legged rats. The noise was so loud it drove me crazy. My head and nose felt like they were about to burst every time that cannon fired. Several times I had the urge of shooting the Americans firing that extra long killing machine.

Traumatic brain injury can occur as a result of that loud blast. The pressure of that noise was loud enough to cause permanent brain damage. That might help explain a lot of things I regret doing before, not using a condom was one of many, and after leaving Vietnam, getting married too soon comes to mind.

Apparently I wasn't the only soldier there with possible brain damage. One tall thin black private shot at a helicopter leaving the area. My guess the cloud of dirt or the noise, maybe both, pissed him off. He was arrested and sent to LBJ, Long Binh Jail.

Some unidentified nutcase shot a soldier's pet dog during the night. The bullet went through the dog's leg and penis. The scars were very conspicuous, but no dripping at either side when he had to pee.

Also during my brief visit someone tried to kill the officer in charge. Instead of tossing a hand grenade inside the man's bunker, the loony tossed it in front of the entrance. No one was injured. The next morning a viable suspect flew out on a whirlybird. I guess for an interrogation and possible water boarding elsewhere. Perhaps he fell out of the chopper while trying to escape.

**Of all the army bases** in Nam I worked at that summer Cu Chi had to be the best. There were more than ten units stationed there. That meant different movies playing every night. It didn't take long to find out what flicks were playing and where. Movies and getting drunk were favorite pastimes for a lot of soldiers stationed at or visiting base camps. I watched a highly edited version of "Bonnie and Clyde" there. All the graphic violence was completely removed - even more so than what appeared on TV years later. What were they thinking? We couldn't handle the violence?

**Other than Americans** trying to kill Americans it had been a fairly safe three months for me that summer. I only recall one mortar attack. Since I was still depressed over Martha ditching me without a friendly good-bye, I decided to put in for a three day vacation in Vung Tau – Vietnam's hottest R&R destination.

Perhaps a bit hotter than the Saigon and Bien Hoa regions, but there were plenty of women and a beach. I don't recall any air conditioners, clearly just a luxury for American officers and nurses.

I'm not sure if I visited the beach area. Methinks that R&R was mostly, if not entirely, sex and drinking \- a lot of both. One fight on my last night there comes to mind. Well, actually a wrestling match inside a bar. My opponent happened to be a Vietnamese woman and it wasn't a friendly clash or sexual.

She didn't like me. That was clear. She made fun of my size. Compared to the three tall Australians in that bar, I might be a pipsqueak. Guys like Sean Penn, Mark Wahlburg, Joaquin Phoenix and I are **not** runts when measured against Vietnamese men. Then we appear large; extra large without our clothing.

The animosity toward me had to be due to me being an American, I think. That and the fact none of the Americans were remotely attracted to her. She resembled a pit-bull standing on its hide legs, about to attack: not a pretty sight. Since I happened to be closer to her height and weight than every American in that saloon, must've made me her target. Her arms and legs were a bit larger than mine, but I was stronger. She didn't think so and actually thought she could kick my ass. Silly girl!

I laughed when she claimed she could beat me up. Then she tried. I don't know how I ended up flat on my back with her sitting on my chest, but I vaguely remember that and me laughing. My GI friends expressed amusement too. Heck, we were drunk. Eventually, with very little effort, I ended up on top of her, holding both of her wrists against the floor.

She appeared stunned and embarrassed. I actually felt sorry for her. I even bought her a drink after she promised to leave me alone, but sex was out of the question. I didn't tell her that. If she wanted a hug, okay, I would've given her one. No problem!

There were plenty of attractive working women making romantic advances inside that bar around midnight. Unfortunately, I made eye to eye contact with the wrong one. She smiled. Oops!

I tried to appear nonchalant as I returned a friendly smile prior to terminating eye contact. That triggered a loud emotionally rant. A couple of her female friends tried to calm her down as she pointed at me.

The woman looked attractive, but I had heard 'dry as sandpaper'. Not the finest annoying grit, the roughest 400 grit that hurts and leaves long deep scratches. The previous night a black soldier informed me of his painful injuries induced by their earlier intimacy. I almost asked how long are those gashes but wisely realized the controversy. I did make a mental note to avoid that emery woman no matter what.

Little Ms Ruff & Ready wasn't the only one ranting out loud. I couldn't help to notice a drunken Australian soldier bad mouthing Americans. He didn't like us either. His two comrades attempted to quiet him down without any success. Several hefty Americans glared at the bigmouth from way down under.

"See what you started," whispered one of my newfound pals. "Looks like a bar room brawl is about to break out."

One physical battle during R&R (rest and relaxation) was one too many - time for bed. Several days later: penicillin time.

Avoid gonorrhea and a Chlamydia infection

By wearing a condom for protection

And if your luck is extremely bad

Spots will make you wish you had

Those words of wisdom should've been preached to us daily during basic training, printed first on our Code of Conduct cards and at least mentioned prior to all R&Rs. Even better would've been giving us packages of condoms before every R&R, kinda like the candy handed out on Halloween night.

Very few will discover they taste like rubber

Most will realize protection against infection.

During the English civil war, King Charles I issued free condoms to help end his troops' high fatality rate as a result of syphilis from prostitutes. From 1927 to 1931 condoms were often distributed to members of the American military and became standard issue for military men. Even the Germans gave out free condoms to their troops, despite their 1941 law, which had outlawed all civilian condom use.

Sadly, many American boys in the 60s weren't even informed of the multiple dangers associated with their pursuit of pleasure without a safeguard. In most US states it was illegal to share any information that might corrupt morals. Thus, if one banned all contraceptive information, the morals of youth were less likely to be corrupted (or so the reasoning seemed to be).

Due to antiquated laws back in the Rolling Stones Age it was a crime to use a condom in many US states, punishable by fine or imprisonment or both dictated by Big Brother. Anyone found guilty of distributing or using contraceptives in CT could be sentenced to a year in jail.

In 1965 two Supreme Court Justices ruled in favor of a CT law that forbids married couples from using condoms. The Sensible Seven ruled it unconstitutional. The right of privacy in the marital relation is a basic right "retained by the people" within the meaning of the Ninth Amendment. That fundamental right is protected by the Fourteenth Amendment from infringement by the States. Therefore Griswold v. Connecticut made it legal for married couples to use condoms. Unmarried couples had to wait until the 70s.

In 1967 Bill Baird was arrested on a felony charge of giving a condom to a 19-year-old. Massachusetts laws banned single people from obtaining condoms. I think they also banned books that contained the word 'condom', but I'm not sure. I know in 30 states it was illegal to advertise condoms. Anyhow, Bill spent three months in jail, but he took his case to the Supreme Court and won in 1972. Thanks to Bill, 42 percent of Americans were then legally permitted to use balloons during sex. We were already allowed to twist long balloons into animal shapes.

Maybe if Bill had won his case in 67, more than one out of every four soldiers serving in Nam in the late 60s might've avoided a sexually transmitted disease or diseases. That's my defense! If I had known, the word 'gonorrhea' wouldn't be on my military health records. The tiny red spots, also on my records, gotta be from Agent Orange.

**A warning** that the M151 MUTT (Military Utility Tactical Truck) flips over too easily might've saved lives. All drivers should've been told any turns made while going over 20 miles an hour may kill you.

An M151 MUTT is a jeep.

Back in 1961 our government KNEW those jeeps weren't safe. They were never released into the civilian market because they didn't meet Federal highway safety standards. Unsafe for public, but okay for soldiers in a combat zone and while serving in the military all over the world.

One hundred and four soldiers died in overturned jeeps in 1967. There were over 3,000 accidents involving the M151s. Congressman Frank Becker wrote Defense Secretary Robert Strange McNamara twice back in 1961 about how unsafe those jeeps were. Becker wanted those safety problems corrected by Ford Motors. Robert Strange McNam didn't respond to those two letters and did nothing about those safety problems.

By a strange coincidence Bobby Strange McNamara happened to be president of Ford Motors at the time of his appointment to Defense Secretary. Then he sold his Ford stocks for more than 1.5 million bucks. Not too shabby for just five weeks as president.

Just prior to being head man he had been involved in selling those costly unsafe jeeps to our government. Perhaps that had something to do with McNam blaming those accidents on the drivers; they're driving 'too fast' and 'cornering too sharply', operator error.

Spec4 David Taranto broke his neck when the jeep he was in flipped over. The driver had no idea how dangerous it could be returning to his lane after passing a slow moving truck. A noticeable sign should've hung by the rear view mirror stating NEVER ATTEMPT TO PASS ANOTHER VEHICLE NO MATTER HOW SLOW IT IS MOVING.

I pulled guard duty with David shortly after my return from R&R, a few nights prior to his tragedy. My last civilian supervisor's name was Tom Taranto. David told me that was his uncle. So when David said he was from Norwich, I assumed Norwich, CT because Tom lived a few miles away from Norwich, CT. Decades later I learned it was Norwich, New York. I only recall pulling guard duty with another soldier twice at that base camp. Both were from New York and both died shortly later.

David died October 12, 1968. About a month later Doug Goldstein's jeep turned over during an attack at Song Be. Doug's injury was trivial, could've been a nose bleed or a slight bruise. Since it happened during combat made him eligible for a Purple Heart metal no matter how minor the wound.

Doug turned out be a hero for driving along the perimeter with his searchlight that night, searching for enemy on info-red and switching to white light to reveal their locations. Just prior to daybreak a mortar hit close to his jeep, causing him to make a sharp turn causing his jeep to flip over. His CO put Doug in for a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. In addition to those medals Doug Goldstein was given two days rest back in base camp.

From the nearby motor pool I spotted Doug getting off a chopper. After exchanging friendly waves we approached each other. He looked tired, filthy and apparently hadn't shaved in days. He told me about the battle and that he was heading for the PX. I accompanied him.

Inside that tiny military store our new post commander rudely cut off our chitchat. We saluted as required by military law but notta in return. I thought a return salute was required, but I guess I was wrong. If not, there wasn't a thing we could've done about it.

The tall colonel examined Spec. 4 Goldstein from head-to-toe. "Don't tell me you're in my army," the officer said, slowing shaking his head in dissatisfaction.

"Yes, sir, I'm one of Uncle Sam's finest," Doug replied with a half-smile. "I just got in from the field. There was an all night attack that ended a few hours ago. My..."

The colonel rudely interrupted him. "I want you to shave, shower, change those filthy clothes, and then report to the Orderly Room to pick up your Article 15."

**Goldstein was demoted** to PFC, fined a hundred dollars, and denied both commendations. The IG (Inspector General) in Long Binh advised Doug later that he could only challenge the denial of awards as a penalty for wrongdoings, but it would be a waste of time.

The new top brass had issued Article 15's to all soldiers wearing tapered jungle fatigues and having facial hair. Many of the base camp warriors had paid to have their green baggy uniforms made narrower. Also our new boss made it clear all haircuts will confirm to military requirements. That didn't matter to me, but I overheard someone babbling about fragging our new commanding officer with a fragmentation grenade.

If looks could kill, then that babbler would've taken my life with his stare. Obviously that drunk didn't trust me. So the next morning I stormed into the Orderly Room requesting a six day leave. I knew my rights.

Dumfounded I wandered out of the office with my mouth open and holding paperwork that enabled me to travel anywhere until a specified date. I packed some clothing, got my checkbook and headed for the Tan Son Nhut airbase. Australia here I come.

I had to settle on Taipei. The land down under was out of the question for at least six months: booked solid. Free loving and I heard they treat American soldiers great down there. That might've been the only populace in the world that did at that time. There were plenty of seats available on a cargo plane to 'the City of Azaleas' without much of a wait. And it was just over a thousand miles away.

**Free transportation** and I didn't have to sit on the floor. Several others and I got to travel strapped to the side of the plane in a parachute type harness. Not too uncomfortable but it was scary when the plane suddenly dropped several hundred feet straight down. An older oriental man appeared frightened, one soldier across from me yelled yahoo as if it was some kind of a ride at an amusement park. I didn't make a sound or show any emotion, thinking we were going to die.

It was an air pocket. Something I had never heard of. I wished someone had mentioned what was happening at the time, possibly making it a little less stressful.

The capital of Taiwan was nice. A much better location than the one I flew out of. Moments after entering the terminal a professional man Friday greeted me by ripping my duffle bag off my shoulder. I trailed him to a '57 Ford Fairlane while he declared his employment, including transportation, amounted to twenty-five dollars - a mere five dollars a day. No tip required!

My servant, Wang, drove me to the best one star hotel in town. It was inexpensive: seventeen fifty for the five night stay. After I checked out my room and put my stuff away Wang brought me to a place that rented women for 24 hours at a reasonable rate: fifteen bucks. In a matter of minutes I hooked up with an eye-catching busty playmate.

Our first evening together was fantastic. Starting with dinner at a restaurant that served outstanding food with live entertainment on a stage a few yards away from out white cloth covered table. The tab was unbelievable low: less than ten bucks for the two of us - wine included. Within walking distance was the most striking Movie Theater I've ever been in. Huge stadium seating with comfortable padded reclining seats situated well above the people in front of you.

Franco Zeffirelli's 'Romeo and Juliet' played on the giant screen. I enjoyed it, but it made my date cry. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she soaked them up with a light pink hankie. I gotta admit the ending choked me up but no waterworks.

My female companion had business to attend to the next day so I gave her the morning off. My guess it really didn't matter. She was out the door before I finished giving her a thumb up.

I treated Wang to breakfast at a nice eating place he had recommended. Afterwards he suggested tailor made suits for forty dollars a piece. A real bargain, but I had to be crazy ordering a lime green suit - matching pants and jacket. What was I thinking? I never wore that get-up. I did wear the blue jacket with grey pants several times although I didn't care for the tight custom fit.

It was close to eleven when I decided to check to see if I can get out on a nearby golf course and if golf clubs were available there at a fair rental price. The course was extremely busy, but I was allowed on as a single with a mandatory caddy. Not too costly, but he ruined my game.

My caddy treated me like his servant: rushing me trough golfers on every hole without giving me a chance to catch by breath. I didn't enjoy any of it while offering no resistance - my fault for not taking command of the situation. 60 Minutes was the name of a new TV show that just aired a month prior to that torment. 60 minutes should NOT be the amount of time it took to complete 18 holes of golf.

I regret not taking a picture of his puss after I refused to give him a tip. I thought, "Step in front my car, Bozo. My driver will bestow on you a tip you deserve: tire threads up and down your body. You didn't make my day."

I woke my chauffer, sleeping on the back seat of his car. He suggested Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch. KFC was somewhat expensive. It cost more there than back in the USA.

After chow we picked up my pretty companion. She favored a romantic boat ride on a nearby lake. Scenic and relaxing, the owner, perhaps my date's brother, did the rowing for a less than two hour sunny voyage. Anyhow I felt ripped off after paying twenty-five dollars in an area where most services and goods were dirt cheap. I was robbed. My hired date was Bonnie and the oarsman was Clyde.

My oriental Bonnie was great to look and had a fantastic body, but I believe she took advantage of me every chance she got - not in a fun way. One afternoon she dragged me to a military facility to buy her cigarettes and a few other things. It took a lot of arm twisting but I eventually gave in. Grrrrr! If I hadn't won all that money playing cards and believed my days on earth were numbered, I doubt if I would have given in to her demands.

"I'm not a prize sap," I kept telling myself. Still do!

One morning, after three nights with my part-time employee, I fired her. Bonnie had to go. Rejecting my advances after we both showered was the final straw. If she was off the clock, she should've mentioned her working hours beforehand. Her failure to make out for two or three minutes at most was too much for me to grin and bear. I wasn't about to take it any more. I was a proud man. Not a chump or a wuss.

Moments after dropping Bonnie off I jumped back into the car and leaned toward Wang. "Go tell her were not picking her up at one. She's fired!" Of course, I locked my car door. Rather be safe than scratched - just in case.

My driver informed me he would supply a new escort by dinnertime. Until then most of my time was spent on a military base shopping and having drinks in front of a live band. Except for the waitresses, there weren't any women there to dance with - just male soldiers. It was kind of boring and depressing. However the drinks were mighty good. They all came with tiny umbrellas. I had quite the collection and a buzz on by the time I stood up to leave.

I tossed the umbrellas into one of my small shopping bags and placed a two dollar tip on the table. As I staggered toward the exit my waitress rushed over to me, smiling. Flabbergasted she informed me nobody had ever left her a tip before.

Stunned by the news she shared and too drunk to respond I just stood there staring at her pretty face. "I don't believe that," I thought. In a daze I kissed her on a cheek and staggered away. A day later I felt like a fool for kissing her. Kind of nerdy, I assumed. Giving her a ten spot would have been the thing to do. It would have been worth it just to see her reaction. And I'm sure, even drunk, it would have felt great.

As promised, Wang provided me a new working girl. Pretty face but less than a handful in the chest area. My chauffer dropped us off at my hotel. I was too drunk to party or go anywhere for that matter.

After a quick shower, alone, I jumped into bed ready to test drive my new companion. We cuddled and kissed a little. Then I made a request that she out-and-out refused - common back then. That labor of love became natural only after a movie staring Linda Lovelace made millions in the USA.

My new girl never left my side. All my remaining hours were spent with her. Being with someone beats the heck out of being alone on vacation. One is a lonely number. She guided me to a Mongolian Barbecue, a buffet situated outside on a sidewalk, my last night in town, a simple pleasure costing only a dollar for the two of us.

**Back in the land of gunfire** , rockets and mortars, resulting in noises that are not wonderful. I was in the air again. Goin' to a place I've never been, singing to myself, " _I'm a travelin' man. Makin' a lot of stops all over Nam. Doin' jobs I wasn't trained for. Tryin' to survive in a poor man's war_."

The helicopter landed in a small unprotected fire support base in the middle of nowhere, as usual. It didn't even have a searchlight. Where's my union rep? I wasn't infantry. Not my job, Uncle Sam. But the compound did have a nice big outdoor movie screen.

That night 'You Only Live Twice' played. Not bad until the attack. Bond, James Bond, was flying Little Nellie. He fired a rocket from the back of his mini helicopter. Just as the larger helicopter behind him exploded, a rocket hit inside our compound. It was loud.

"Wow! Great sound effects," I thought, not knowing that was a real explosion.

The movie stopped playing. We rushed to the perimeter to shoot at the local inhabitants who apparently didn't want us in their country. No exchange of gunfire. No more rockets. We stood guard for about an hour. Nobody was injured by the rocket that hit inside. The natives did manage to spoil our entertainment. The rest of the movie was not shown that night. I don't know about the next night because I was out of there.

I had been dropped off at the wrong fire support base. That explained not having a searchlight to operate. I had exited the chopper before reaching my intended designation, the worst place possible: a recently developed spot called Position Diamond located by the Cambodian border.

McNam's strategy was to use minimum force in a geographically constricted area that would lure enemy attacks leading to high "body counts" while sacrificing a few decoys. Ya know, appear weak and then destroy with superior firepower from miles away. More often than not that tactical maneuver worked, but at times too risky and that increased the likelihood of high friendly losses. The enticement of Diamond probably looked good on paper if ya didn't have to be there. I thought that tactic sucked. It's unfair to use us as bait in their war of attrition. Military lives do matter to a lot of Americans. Obviously politicians and military brass didn't give a muck.

**Patrol Base Diamond sucked!** Like most firebases there were no luxuries: TV, movies, a mattress, hot food and running water. This one had the worst toilet facility I had ever seen. It was a two-seater without any privacy: no wooden enclosure or curtain and centrally located. It stood in the middle of our small compound. Fortunate for me, a modest or bashful fellow, I worked the nightshift. I managed to do my business around 3 AM while most people were sleeping. _If I can't get some shelter, I'm gonna stay away. Gimme shelter._

Allegedly Diamond was the military base depicted being overrun by VC in Stone's movie, _Platoon._

One night I was responsible for the deaths of two humans. Maybe they were just two curious kids - I don't know. I do know one of them had narrow shoulders and a small head.

He peered over a bush just outside the barbed wire. (see photo - to right of searchlight) At first I wasn't sure if it was a person or not. The searchlight puts out a beam not seen by the naked eye. You need infra-red binoculars to see what the beam is shinning on. Those green images weren't too clear. I stared at him for a couple of minutes through my info-red binoculars. When he moved down, behind the bush, I felt a chill down my spine. Then I knew it was a person. Perhaps there were hundreds lying down behind him, ready to attack.

I telephoned the tower and gave the location of the person via an azimuth reading. Someone in the tower checked out that area with a starlight scope. He stated that there were two Viet Cong scouts crawling away from that location.

Heavy artillery was called-in. Within minutes a bombardment of live rounds from howitzers exploded just outside barbed wire. After the tower reported two direct hits, the shelling stopped.

I thought we had it bad. Those two unfortunate souls probably never had it as good as we did. It bothered me a great deal that I was responsible for their deaths. My crew, the guy in the photo, and I got credit for a half kill. Though I believe credit didn't apply. To this day I regret reporting my sighting that night.

Although my days inside that dangerous confinement were gloomy, I had it much better than the infantry soldiers that left the area at sunrise and returned at sundown. I can't guess why they went out daily on a dangerous patrol in an area many miles away from the nearest village or town.

Most of my days were spent lounging around or playing cards with anyone available with money. Since I was in charge of my one man crew and had no one there giving me orders, I flew out of the area the first chance I got. That round trip flight to base camp didn't take too long. I had enough time to shower, eat some decent food and shop at the PX. Beef Jerky and booze were my main purchases.

A fifth of Smirnoff vodka and Jack Daniels whiskey cost just a buck and a quarter each. No sales tax. A real bargain I couldn't resist. I bought plenty of alcohol. Since there wasn't a club or PX on Position Diamond, I could've been the neighborhood supplier of high spirits. At a mere fifty cents a shot glass full I could have made a fortune. The soldiers returning from their all day hike might've appreciated my goodwill. Per word of mouth I imagine my clientele would've grown and grown.

The brass didn't seem to care about drugs, the hard stuff or the lives of young soldiers. Defense Secretary Robert McNam proved that by ordering Rear Adm. Lawrence Geis to bring backs jets sent to help an American ship under attack. When Geis protested that the Liberty was under attack and needed help, McNamara retorted that "President Johnson is not going to go to war or embarrass an American ally over a few sailors."

**Every night six poor souls** were sent outside the barb wire. Officially their lives were insignificant, almost like the rich sending the poor to war. In this case the sacrificial lambs were used as a tip off that the enemy had arrived. Clearly other warning devices would have been more practical. If the one who thought up using a Listening Post had to be with them, I bet he would come up with something more sensible. That rationale might equally apply to those nutcases ordering the spraying of areas with chemicals known to be hazardous. Prior to spraying close to our bunkers, the same stuff should be sprayed by their residences - same distance. Mandatory! Maybe they would have reconsidered.

Our government leaders were told back in 1967 Agent Orange caused cancer, skin diseases, birth defect, and other serious health problems. Yet they continued to use it four additional years. An estimation of about 19 million gallons of Agent Orange was sprayed over South Vietnam. Endangering American soldiers and Vietnamase civilians just to destroy the jungles by defoliating trees and shrubbery where Viet Cong troops might hide and to deprive them of vegetation.

**Back in Sept, '68** I went to an aid station about small raised red areas on my penis and stomach. Skin rashes were common, nothing to worry about, keep the areas clean and return if it gets worse kinda rings a bell with the help of my medical records. Like magic the rash disappeared in a few days, but returned by Oct. 21. The medic gave me some tetracycline, used to treat acne. That stuff made it worse. Four days later 3 million units of penicillin were injected into my backside and another 1.5 million the next day. That seemed to work, but by mid Nov. my buttocks developed large pus filled blisters of some kind. More penicillin! A couple of days later an ear infection and the return of the rash. The doctor wrote 'possibly a reaction to penicillin' and other stuff I can't read due to his illegible handwriting.

In due course everything cleared up until Diamond. Then after a couple of weeks all I had to do was whip out my penis. Land of showers and hot food here I come. I ended up back in base camp, home of the Dusters, Quads & Searchlights. A couple of shots of penicillin and some green soap did wonders: cured again.

**I recall pulling guard duty** only once in 1968 at base camp - that one time with David Taranto. All the other times while I was away from home at fire support bases. Near the end of January, '69 I pulled guard duty with Sp4 Paul Rudy inside a small bunker facing the nearby village. Highly unlikely any attack would come from that direction. We chatted for a couple of hours. Paul had less than three months to serve in country and hadn't heard from his girlfriend in quite awhile - like me. He was from New York - like David.

We discussed the movie we had watched the preceding night inside our local movie bunker. I joked about being in love with Amy Partlett, a character played by Karen Black. Maybe my mentioning of Karen's slightly off-kilter eyes bothered Paul. I hadn't noticed Paul eyes weren't a match, different colors, but I did immediately after making that eye comment. He appeared somewhat bothered. His frustration had a hair-trigger; a little irritant set him off. He became very annoyed after I said I liked 'You're a Big Boy Now' more than 'The Graduate'.

"Are you serious? The Graduate was a lot better, funny with an excellent sound track."

"Big Boy was funnier with one great song. _So darling, my darling, be home soon._ "

My singing caused Paul to go off the deep end. Either that or the lyrics reminded him of the girl who had recently dumped him. I'm no therapist, if I had been; maybe I could've helped him get over a girl thousands of miles away.

Paul took the first two hour watch while I tried to get some Z's. Maybe I managed to get a full ten minutes of sleep before my turn to stand watch.

As a rule I never had a problem staying awake. No doubt that was the only time I had a big problem keeping my eyes open. In fear of falling asleep I woke up my cohort a minute too soon.

When that lovesick kid realized I had disturbed him sixty seconds too soon, he went ballistic. What a temper! In order to calm him down and perhaps prevent him from shooting me, I told him to wake me ten minutes earlier and we'll call it even. I did apologize and explained the difficulty I was having keeping awake. Maybe if we had fought and I managed to put him in the hospital, he might be alive today.

Less than a week later I heard Paul killed himself over a Dear John letter. I never believed he placed the barrel of his M16 rifle under his chin and pulled the trigger over a girl.

Two nights later I pulled guard duty, alone, in the same tower Paul had shot himself in. The tower overlooked the South Vietnamese compound. Before dark I witnessed the shooting of a Vietnamese soldier. Well, a second or two after the shot.

Four young Vietnamese men stood chatting in a small circle about seventy-feet away from me. A rifle fired. One of them glanced down at his stomach. There was a small hole in his white T-shirt. Stunned, with his mouth wide open, he looked at the guy who shot him and then at the hole in his T-shirt. His feet gave out and he fell to the ground. The other three carried him away.

**It didn't take long** for me to takeover a searchlight in Cu Chi. It was a far, far better position than most of the other places I've been. And safer, I thought.

It appeared not too dangerous until February 26. Tunnels were used by an estimated 30 to 40 Viet Cong to get inside our base camp. One group of combatants took small explosives, handheld rocket launchers, and automatic weapons to the helicopter area.

There were fourteen helicopters. Explosions from two concussion grenades tossed inside a nearby bunker, killing SP4 Larry C. Koski and SP4 John R. Tennant, woke the sleeping guards stationed inside each chopper.

Jose Pridou awakened by the blasts immediately noticed an unfamiliar Vietnamese face peeking in at him through an opening. Without delay or a WTF inquiry he grabbed his .45 handgun and fired twice. The first bullet entered the VC's eye. Realizing helicopters are primary targets and enemy rocket magnets he skedaddled for the nearest bunker.

Garry Baker awoke to see a couple Vietcong soldiers grinning at him through the side door of his chopper. Wearing only his socks and green underpants he leapt from his helicopter and ran for a safer enclosed space.

Milley, Cradock, and Stringer left their aircrafts and ran toward an ammo bunker. A bullet hit Cradock's shoulder, he fell to the ground. A rocket grenade took off SP4 Isaac Stringer's head.

Nine Chinook helicopters were completely destroyed in the first five minutes. As soon as the first helicopter exploded, Viet Cong attacked two sides of our compound and the main gate area. My side wasn't one of them, unlucky in love, lucky in combat situations.

Seven not-too-bright Viet Cong stormed our main gate and made it onto the perimeter barbed wire prior to being shot. Their bodies were still hanging there by mid morning.

I recall loud sirens and explosions waking me from a sound sleep. In a jiffy I was dressed and out the door. As I stepped away from the doorway bullets flew inches over my head, leaving large holes through the wooden structure. For the first time in my life I was glad to be a few inches shorter than both my brothers.

Later I learned those rounds came from our friendly Vietnamese soldiers from an area not too far away. I think it was an accident, but I'm not sure. While safe inside our bunker another soldier and I got word more than forty Vietcong made it inside our camp. Our job was to protect our perimeter: eyes front. Not too likely with the enemy running around behind us.

To our right more than two hundred yards away there was an explosion inside an empty bunker. I could barely make out a little guy running toward me. He fell face first into the dirt.

There was gunfire everywhere and plenty of flairs lighting up the areas surrounding our compound. Rockets and mortars were hitting inside the compound. Normally they would hit outside during my visits.

The battle lasted a couple of hours. Fourteen American soldiers were killed, over fifty wounded. I saw more than a dozen dead Viet Cong scattered around inside the compound. I heard seven were captured.

I gazed over the bodies and took some pictures at approximately 0630. My fellow Americans smiled broadly as they looked down at those dead bodies. I wondered how anyone could get pleasure from viewing the dead. Most were naked except for the ones wearing American jungle fatigues. Perhaps they were stolen by the girls paid to wash our clothes or taken off dead American soldiers.

Non-American clothing was probably taken off the dead bodies for a souvenir. One of the deceased reminded me of a friend back home. This poor guy's leg was hanging by skin, bones exposed, and he had a huge hole in his head. There was nothing inside. I guess somebody took his brain for a keepsake.

I never got used to corpses. Viewing them bothered me. Maybe if some weren't so young, I wouldn't have felt so sad and guilty. It was their country. To this day I don't have a clue why our country drafted the young and poor to kill younger and poorer people that lived so far away from us. Stopping the spread of Communism never made any sense to me.

**By February 27, '69** my stomach and penis were covered with a scary looking rash. Sort of like large pimples of different sizes and colors plus superficial ulcers emitting pus. Finally after several visits to a medic, I was sent walking to the 12th Evacuation Hospital in Cu Chi.

While waiting to be examined, I sat by to a helicopter pilot dying from severe burns. What was left of one arm was covered in a clear cylinder tube. His hand and part of his arm were gone. He had no hair and no ears. His face and body were red, black and purple. He was lying on a cot, awake and begging for water.

A nurse came over and put drops of water on his lips. The man continued to plead for water. That's all he ever said, "Water. Water." It was his last word. Before walking away, the nurse didn't cover his face. I didn't know if he had any eyelids to close, but she didn't bother to try. As I stared at his eyes I felt choked up. My mouth became very dry. I wanted water, but wasn't about to ask for some. In all likelihood there must be a water shortage. A few drops of H2o wasn't about to quench my thirst.

There I was, a kid with a rash, in a room with soldiers suffering from severe injuries. I wished they would just give me some green soap and send me to a place where I can bathe every day. That's all I needed. Instead a doctor assigned me to a hospital bed. There I stayed for sixteen days. Every morning I had to hear this petite nurse, a cute lieutenant, tease me.

"Time to wash your little friend," she yelled, approaching from 10 feet away.

I hated that. "Sir, stop referring to it as little. Be alone with me for a few hours, without a girdle, I'll show you," I thought.

Teasing people can be contagious. I was taken out of the hospital to fix a searchlight at Camp Saint Barbara. While waiting for a ride back to the hospital, I messed with one of the working girls outside the barbed wire. After negotiating, the tall woman led me behind a bush. When she saw my penis, covered with sores like little volcanoes with pus oozing out of their tops, she handed me my money back. It scared the hell out of her. Me too!

My doctor wrote down chancroid and rash on my health record. The rash cleared up and I was released after 16 long boring days. Afterwards I stayed in Cu Ch as a searchlight operator and repairman.

About a week after my hospital stay a letter finally came from Martha. She wrote that her mother wasn't mailing the letters she had written to me. Of course I didn't believe her.

**I assisted** in constructing a concrete grease rack. The cement was poured from the back of a truck. Afterwards a lieutenant ordered me and a PFC to wash the vehicle at a nearby pond outside the gate.

At the small body of water I paid a couple of Vietnamese boys to do the dirty deed. While instructing the kids a jeep pulled up. A sergeant major jumped out and yelled, "Ya in the army, aren't ya, get over here."

The private and I hurried over to him. By the time we got there Lt. Colonel McNeill stood by his side. The sergeant told us to see the colonel, a huge guy, enormous like John Wayne. Otherwise I might have been tempted to hit him.

The officer and not a gentleman didn't return my salute. Instead he put his finger inches from my face and shouted, "You rotten bastard, how would you like to be private?"

I glanced at his finger, wanting to grab and twist it. Perhaps break it. "No, sir!"

McNeill turned to the private by my side and screamed, "You, you rotten bastard, next time you approach me, salute me."

My partner in crime did nothing and said nothing. LTC McNeill shouted again. "Salute me!"

The nineteen-year-old soldier, new in country and quite nervous, saluted.

McNeill informed us that the pond was off limits and we had sixty seconds to get the truck out of there. The humongous flake placed a hand on his revolver and started to count.

We ran back to the truck and hopped in. The PFC drove while I sat by his side with my M16 rifle ready for action. If that officer had pulled out his handgun, I think I might have shot him. Why take a chance? Nah, I'm not that stupid, almost.

Since I was following legal orders that I couldn't disobey or even question, the conduct by those two slave masters not connected with my outfit riled me. They had absolutely no right to treat us that way, especially a high ranking officer who should know better. The private and I were not children caught misbehaving. I had turned the other cheek too often. I wanted an apology from McNeill or the lieutenant who ordered us to go to that pond if it was, in fact, off limits. I don't know!

McNeill's conduct was clearly unbecoming an officer, Article 133, so I filed an official complaint with the IG. Mainly because of what had happened to Doug and all the other soldiers fined and busted over nit-picking offenses. Two can play that game, I thought.

**While fondling his genitals** the major read my grievance. Out of the blue the lewd top brass slammed my paperwork on his desk. "Do you expect me to believe this?"

"It's all true, sir," I replied.

"You could go to jail for signing that," he said, pointing at my written complaint.

I reacted with a smile.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," he shouted. "You're wasting my time. Get out of my office. Now!"

**That night** I was sleeping under the stars more than three hundred yards outside the barbed wire protecting the Long Binh base camp. I could barely see the buildings. That duty assignment, or potential death sentence, was called a Listening Post. The scheme was to get well beyond the base perimeter and listen silently for any night activity. If you hear the enemy approaching, you alert the base. The only problem we were sitting ducks if there was a major attack.

There were only five of us. Seven if you count the two visiting young Vietnamese women. One of the girls appeared to have a beau present and accounted for. Those two lovebirds were together all night, since 1900 hours, and shared one of two army pup tents. The small green ones with triangle openings equipped with zip up front flaps.

We had folding cots to sleep on and plenty of marijuana to smoke. No cold beer or anything to drink that I was aware of. There wasn't anything to hide behind, no sandbag walls or bunker or a hole to jump into in case of an attack. Our camping ground was flat and wide open. For protection we had our M16 rifles and one M79 grenade launcher. I wasn't aware of anyone being in charge. I was the only one at hand ranked higher than E-3. I must've been in charge, but nobody told me. Two of my allies had no rank sewed on their fatigues. They were probably released from nearby LBJ to pull unprotected guard duty.

The gettable girl placed a cot in the center of the encampment and removed all her clothing. With a hand she beckoned each and every one of us to join her on the cot. No one made a move in her direction.

I asked the soldier closest to me, "Ya know anyone with a rubber for sale and a tent to rent?"

He grunted something unintelligible while keeping his eyes on the girl lying flat on her back in dire need of some puppy loving.

The girl waited patiently. Occasionally lifting and spreading her legs; still no takers for possibly 'modesty' reasons. She was very attractive but not Tuesday Weld. Then, maybe, I might have performed in front of that small live audience. Mostly just to brag afterwards that I nailed Tuesday Weld. It would be something worth remembering.

Eventually everybody had seen enough of the naked girl's exhibition and found a place to sleep. I'm not aware of anybody standing guard or staying awake. Surprisingly I slept like a sufferer on anesthesia.

**The trip back** to the states was very pleasant. The stewardesses were super nice. I don't ever recall civilians treating me other than friendly while in uniform. It felt absolutely great to be back in the USA. I landed in California, home of people with ultra white teeth. I would have stayed for awhile if Martha wasn't waiting for me by the other ocean.

I was happy to see her. When we hugged, I noticed she wasn't wearing a girdle. Actually, I didn't notice any panty lines.

