INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART SIX

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Jenx

Crisp walked me over to the hooch where I’d be living. He told me to take the unoccupied rack (cot) in the middle, along the back row, the least desirable location as befitting a newly-arrived FNG (you already know what that means). My hooch mates were still at work, so I had the place to myself for a while.

Hooch. These temporary quarters, also called “hardbacks,” had been built for us by the Seabees (Navy Construction Battalions). More like Jarheads than Squids, the Seabees can also fight on foot when necessary, so we Marines respected them. Military lore holds that Seabees, in timed contests, can build a hardback hooch from start-to-done in less than forty minutes. Snappy salute to those guys who can put it together fast and get it right the first time.

Our hardbacks were 16 by 32 feet with raised plywood floors and screen doors at both ends. Plywood walls about waist high provided the rigidity. These solid walls were topped by screen all the way up to the roof plate. The roof itself was a waterproofed (mostly) tent with the sides rolled up and tied so that whatever confused breeze might accidentally wander by could blow right through the screen walls. If it rained hard enough, the tent sides could be rolled down. The brick barracks at Cherry Point alternated between equatorial swelter and tundral permafrost. Let me tell you, Seabee hooches are a lot more comfortable.

The guys in my hooch had decorated their personal spaces with lamps, hooks, end tables, footlockers, closet poles, souvenirs, and posters of women. One Marine had an enormous lizard on a string that watched me unblinkingly from its perch up on a rafter. The hooch had a homey feeling about it. Cool.

As I started unpacking my sea bag a stench wafted upward, rank and fetid, like the gasses that seep out when grave robbers open an ancient tomb. I felt like I was on an archeological dig. “What the hell is this,” I queried, unearthing the first repulsive artifact. “Ah. Primitive humans of the Twentieth Century called these objects . . . socks!”

The guys started drifting in and introduced themselves. I knew a couple of them from Delta Battery. They advised me to get my shit together before the next morning’s formation and then pitched in to help me.

“We have a new Gunny.”

“You do NOT want him on your case.”

One of the Delta Marines added, “Cunningham.”

“Yeah. He already knows I’m here.”

“Shit.”

Another Marine asked, “You know Cunningham?”

“Like Janet Leigh knows Norman Bates.”

It went right over their heads.

“Who’s Janet Leigh?”

“Just a girl I left behind.”

“Well she’s probably already fucking your brother.”

Marines. Always ready with a kind word. But I laughed, acknowledging that he had won this small verbal engagement. The same Marine told me to give him my belt. What? Shrugging, I took off my belt and gave it to him. He procured a can of paint, took my belt outside and sprayed the buckle and tip black. No reflective brass. Right.

One of the benefits of membership in the Corps is the help freely given by your brothers. Everything I owned was either on me or stuffed into my sea bag, wrinkled and filthy, so one guy loaned me a clean T shirt, another guy loaned me an iron so I could get my least dirty pair of trousers into presentable shape. I washed my cover (fatigue cap) by hand, borrowed a cover block (imagine a four-inch length of stovepipe) and starched my cover into the personal style I had artistically evolved back in “the world.” The blocking process required the sheet metal block, spray starch, and several clothes pins, all of which I borrowed. My personal style featured hard, straight sides terminating in a sharp rim that encircled the crown of the cap, creating a small crater on top, a shallow declivity into which a mother sea bird might construct her sturdy nest. Every Marine had his own cover fashion, the goal of which was to make the starched cap as outlandish as possible without forcing one of the officers to call you on it.

I also noticed that most of the Marines possessed sexy, canvas-topped “jungle boots.” I sinfully coveted a pair for myself so that I could launch my style journey from FNG to “salty.” But that would have to wait.

Supply guys are good to know. Every hooch should have it’s own Supply Buddy. Our “procurement specialist” arrived with a blanket, a canteen cup and a few other odds and ends for me to begin building my kit.

In quick time my hooch had me sorted out enough to survive the morning formation without you-know-who embellishing my rear end with a new asshole.

The guys started getting out of their fatigues and into swim suits, flip flops and Hawaiian shirts.

“He can’t go like that,” complained Newcomb, a Motor T ape. Bert Newcomb and I would later collaborate on several enjoyable, if stupid, excursions out in the boonies.

John Boocher, on whom I would eventually hang the nickname, John-The-Baptist-Boocher ordered me to give him my worst pair of trousers. Well, OK. I tossed over a pair of fatigues.

“Nurse Davis, scissors!”

Private Roger-Dale-Davis-from-West-By-God-Virginia moued like Betty Boop and obeyed with a falsetto giggle.”

“Yes, DOCTOR Boocher.”

Taking the scissors like a melodramatic surgeon, Boocher cut the legs off my trousers and proudly presented me with a rather uneven pair of cut-off shorts.

“OK. Let’s hit it!”

“Hit what?”

“The fucking Club, Jenx! The drinking lamp is lit!”

Jenx?

I followed the guys out of the hooch, down a path heading south, around a little hill to a ramshackle open-air shack fondly known as the E Club. Some one (not a Seabee!) had whacked together a bar of sorts and a few benches. Up-ended cable spools served as tables. A few bare light bulbs, assorted posters of women, and a South Vietnamese flag completed the décor. That was it except for . . . the view.

Bravo Battery occupied a point that jutted out into the South China Sea. Stretched out below us was all of Chu Lai, a James Michener wet dream vision of Old Hawaii. Miles, I mean MILES of sandy beach, palm trees, and surf. As I was taking it in, a mellow tropical breeze blew across my face. I took a deep breath. One of my new buddies walked up and handed me a cold (cold!) Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Bravo. Breeze. Beer. Beauty. Buddies. Bobby.

I’m starting to like this war.

The E Club filled up with all the lower-ranking Marines, everyone who was not on duty. One guy showed up with a guitar and began to play (appallingly). We joined in, singing along with the few songs he almost knew. The beer was cheap, but not free, and you could run a tab. The proceeds were designated for club “improvements,” the specific details of which were a closely guarded secret of the Club Committee. We started drinking, seriously drinking, to support the Club improvements, of course. We drank, and sang, and told stories, stories about Nutcase fragging the CO, stories about Cunningham, the baddest of all bad-asses in the Corps, stories about the women we left behind, and the women were going to meet on R and R (Rest and Relaxation) in Hong Kong, or Tai Pei, or Kuala Lumpur, or . . . Bangkok. Bang. . . cock! Just the name, Bangkok, brought a smile to every face.

Eventually the noise died down. We told stories of home. Some of the guys were homesick.

Not me.

I asked the “musician” if I could borrow his guitar. He passed it over. What a piece of shit, a no-name junker from Da Nang or Saigon. It was de-laminating and buzzy. The keys were corroded, but they worked, after a fashion. I was able to tune it, more or less. The strings were so rusty they left brown lines on my fingers. I ran through a couple of fast scales and a few chord progressions. The club was dead quiet. Everyone was starring at the FNG.

Show time.

At Cherry Point I had perfected a couple of recent tunes that the guys seemed to like. I hit the opening chords of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”

Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum
Bump bum . . . ba da bum . . . ba dum bum

I can’t get no . . . o . . . satisfaction . . .

The Club went nuts. Every swinging dick was on his feet or on the benches or on the tables screaming the song at the top his lungs. When the song was finished, after many repeats of the chorus, the Marines yelled and clapped, howled and stomped.

“More! More! More!”

This was 1966, and most of the songs I knew, the ones that could actually be played on a single de-laminating Vietnamese guitar, were folk songs, and that was just fine with these brothers. I plowed through my Peter, Paul, and Mary (Lemon Tree) repertoire, and slid over to The Kingston Trio (Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley) canon. Bob Dylan tunes were a big hit, especially Like a Rolling Stone and Mr. Tambourine Man for which I knew all the lyrics (and still do). I finished the first set with Wake Up Little Susie by the Brothers, the Everly Brothers. You may not know this, but the Everly Brothers were Marines from 1961 to 1963, and they are, as you can imagine, beloved of the Corps.

I had a couple more beers. By this time higher ranking enlisted men, Corporals, Sergeants and above, who had their own quiet little club somewhere else in camp, began to drift in and were welcomed with beers on the house. The great event was the arrival of, you guessed it, Gunny Cunningham who shot me a self-satisified little smirk that only I could see, (What is he up to?)

The guys were begging me for more contemporary stuff. Gunny Cunningham gave me a small public nod of encouragement (what is he up to?). I assayed California Girls, Wooly Booly, Hang on Sloopy, My Girl, and Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter. It all worked. Another get-up-on-the-table destroyer was We Gotta Get Outta This Place. Can you imagine how loud we screamed that sucker? By this point I was beyond the songs I had mastered, the guitar work was horrible, but nobody cared, and if I couldn’t hack a guitar bridge, we’d just sing it.

We gotta get outta this place
(singing) Ba da da DUM!

If it's the last thing we EVER do
(singing) Ba da da DUM!

More beers.

My finger tips were killing me so I slowed down and dropped us into the depths of melancholy with two of the best tunes by the other Brothers, the Righteous Brothers, Unchained Melody and You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling.

I had reached the point where I could no longer even feel my finger tips. I thought I could squeeze one more out of those rusty strings with a simple first position C, A minor, F and G chording. I chose an oldy-but-goodie, the tune Judy Vance and I most loved for our slow dances at Florida High . . .

Moon River.

Everybody joined in, and we sung that sentimental lullaby so sweetly, with such sincerity. So beautiful. So drunk. When the last chord died away, we sat there together, silently looking out at the stars above an alien sea, so very far away from home.

I won’t speak for anybody else, but I was happier in that moment than . . . well . . . happier than I could ever remember being. I was doing something I thought was noble, in the company of my brothers, in this spectacular place. I had been fully accepted by these Marines and was already one of them. I even had a new nickname, Jenx, and a reputation. They loved me, and I loved them.

Well, maybe not Cunningham. What did he mean with that secret little smirk?

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RUNNIN’ GOALS for RUNNIN’ PEEPS.

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Progress Report

Well, gutsy guys and galloping gals (you know who you are), here it is the end of January. How are you progressing with your running goals for 2010? My goal for the first month was 84 miles. I made 78 miles, about one run shy of the mark, close but no medal. My running doppelganger, Kinsey Milhone, that darling girl, made 93 miles, but you know she’s just relentless (bitch). So, 78 run to date, 922 to go. I am going to have to make up some additional miles in February regardless of weather. Oh, yes. Bad weather is MY excuse.







But, back to you.



No, you are not off the hook. How are you doing? If your progress is disappointing, what has been holding you back?

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RAISING THE STEAKS

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Growing and Eating Sacred Cows

Think about raising your own pasture-fed beef cattle. How could you do it? How much would it cost?

My old Marine Corps comrade, Gary (not his real name), paid a visit last week to “talk story” about our time together in Viet Nam. I asked him how he was making a living, and among several answers he mentioned that he was raising cattle for his own table and for retail at the local farmers markets. Holy shit! His response really got my attention.

Cattle ranching would seem to be an strange match with which to fire up a vegetarian, but I am interested in all things related to sustainable farming, localism, eating seasonally, and organic food production. Though I have no intention in ever eating beef myself, I understand and applaud well-reasoned agriculture based on pasture and ruminant symbiosis. When Gary pitched his story across my plate, I just had to take a swing

I ask him to break it down for me:

$400 Purchase a feeder or stocker calf of good breeding. Nevada County is mostly agricultural so there are plenty of locally raised calves available. You can buy them from a rancher or at the County Fair from the FFA kids.

$315 Rent pasturage from a local rancher at $17.50 a week for 18 weeks. Gary is a stand-off cattleman. He doesn't own the land or breeding stock himself.

$50 Medications, vaccinations and worming, but not the heavy dose of antibiotics or hormones given to CAFO (concentrated animal feeding operations) cows.

$1320 Cattle feed (mostly corn) to “finish” them off. $11 a day for 120 days. Finishing is the process of introducing high-fat content into the meat, or marbling, which satisfies a taste addiction acquired by most beef-eating Americans. Gary, with pride, boasts that he finishes his cows for 120 days while most other boutique cattlemen finish for only 60 days. Whether grass-fed beef needs to be finished at all is a matter of taste. There is a growing movement that lauds 100% grass-fed beef, but that’s not my friend Gary’s goal.

$576 Butcher. Gary quotes $.80 per pound for butchering a 720 pound steer, but winks that he gets it done for less. Looking into this further, I discovered that butcher costs vary wildly, and that butchering in California costs a lot more than butchering in Arkansas (surprise!).

$3000 This is the total cost when we include incidentals like transportation, cold storage, salt and worm licks, and so on. From his 720 pound steer he receives about 600 pounds of beef. Divide yield into total cost:

$5.00 per pound (average)

Even when we consider that some of the cuts may go for more than $5.00 per pound, it is obvious that there is no big money to be made here by us amateur cowpokes.

Could our costs be cut? Sure, especially if we eliminate the “corn finishing” or reduce it drastically, and we also find a butcher (wink) who will do it for, say $.50 per pound. From time to time we can also purchase a calf for less than $400. In his budget “Gary” did not mention the costs of hay (for over-wintering) and other food supplements and concentrates. So, eliminating the intensive “finishing” process, but keeping the other costs the same, and adding about $300 for hay and food supplements, our total cost for 600 pounds of butchered beef could be as low as

$1500

About $2.50 per pound.

Would you pay $2.50 per pound for the healthiest, leanest, safest, most environmentally sensitive, happiest filet mignon you’ve ever eaten? Well, certainly you would (if you eat the sacred filet at all). The point here is that you can not make a lot of money at raising your own beef, but you can feed several people cheaply and safely, rebuild the fertility of the land, quietly sell a little on the off-market, and maybe pay your property taxes with the bit left over.

Quietly sell a little on the off-market? The USDA and other regulatory agencies make it difficult to operate mom-and-pop meat economies, but there are a few small meat packing houses around and there are ways we make obeisance to the USDA rules, policies largely formulated to protect the giant food business, the industrial megalith USDA worships as its own sacred cow.

Or we drive our little herds into outlaw country. We better start remembering how to ride low in the saddle.

Coma ti yi yippee yippee yay, yippee yay
Coma ti yi yippee yippee yYay
Git along little doggie.


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INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART FIVE

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Fragged

Chu Lai in the afternoon, a benevolent California summerscape, harmonious mountains in the purple distance o’er looked mellow sunburned hills and innocent beaches with waves lined up for cheerful surfers. But, with respect to photographic accuracy, appliqué upon this sultry paradise, a patchwork of olive helicopters, Hueys and Shithooks (Chinooks), a squadron of camouflaged Phantoms so bitchin’ they gave me a hard on, deuce-and-a-half trucks, jeeps scooting around like busy bugs, storage vans, tents, and heaps of mysterious military stuff, all squatting ugly beneath the background roar of diesel generators. Quite a sight.

I grinned.

A Pair of Shithooks Flying Into Chu Lai

Nobody was expecting me. Of course. By now I was used to indifference regarding Lance Corporal Jenkins’ haphazard arrivals. Locating a plywood construction that looked like it might offer useful function, or at least a telephone, I made inquiry about the location of Bravo Battery, Second Light Anti-Aircraft Missile Battalion.

Lance Corporal Pogeybait on duty blinked several times like he was just waking up and blearily acknowledged the existence of my new unit. There was something off-kilter about the way he was acting, but I couldn’t tell what it was, not that I cared.

“Bravo, huh? Point Cluster Fuck just north of the ROKs (Korean Marines).

“How do I find it?”

“Look for the biggest shit storm in Nam,” sneered Pogeybait, “that’s Bravo Battery”.

“OK, whatever you say. Got a telephone?”

“Yeah, but you can’t use it.”

“Why not?”

“Duty phone,” he slurred, “O-fissshal communications only.”

“Then how about you calling Bravo and get me a ride?”

Huffily he replied, “Not authorized to do that.”

I had about a bellyful of this weird asshole.

“Then how about I ‘authorize’ your scrawny chicken neck until it snaps like a pencil?”

“OK, OK, don’t get yourself worked up. Here’s the phone. Knock yourself out, FNG.”

(Fucking New Guy)

“Thanks so very much, REMF”

(Rear Echelon Mother Fucker)

He laughed. Evidently I had established my cool lingo credentials. He reached under the desk and came up with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“Wanna beer?”

That’s what it was! The reason for his odd behavior. Lance Corporal Pogeybait was snockered.

“Aren’t you on duty?”

“Yeah, but it’s groovy, man, groovy. Everybody in Chu Lai is drunk.”

“How’s that?”

“Cargo ship came in with the . . . beer. Nothing but beer, beer, beer, stacks of beer, mountains of beer. No food. No ass wipe (toilet paper). Just beer, lots of . . . beer.” He giggled.

“Beer.”

“Yep. Supply tried to keep it under wraps, but there was just about a fuckin’ riot and the Old Man finally said shit let ‘em have it the sooner they drink it the sooner it’s gone. So every swinging dick got CASES of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Wanna beer?”

“Is it cold?”

“Fuck no! How ya gonna cool beer out here? Who cares anyway? Wanna beer?”

“I'll take a pass, don’t want to show up drunk to my new unit.”

He thought that was about the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Switchboard put me through to Bravo. I was expecting another drunk reply, but the Marine who picked up the phone on the first ring was sharp.

“Bravo battery, Lance Corporal Crisp.”

I told him who I was and that I was reporting for duty. I heard him yell.

“Hey Gunny, we expecting Lance Corporal Jenkins?”

I head a familiar voice off in the distance say, “Oh fuck me, Jenkins.”

Shit. Cunningham. Gunny Cunningham. Why did it have to be Cunningham? Shit. Shit. Shit. How the hell could he get here ahead of me? He was still at Cherry Point when I deployed, and I hadn’t wasted any time getting here. In fact, as far as I was concerned, I was at least a week early.

He picked up the phone, “Jenkins?”

I sighed, “It’s me, Gunny?”

“Where the fuck have you been? You’re late. You’re UA (unauthorized absence, the new term for AWOL, absent without leave).”

“En route, Gunny, I got here as fast as I could.”

He snarled to someone, “Give me those orders!” He slammed down the phone.

There was a moment of silence while he read. He picked the phone back up.

“You’re early. You’re a fucking week early. Why are you a week early, Jenkins, can’t you just follow the fucking program?”

This was vintage Cunningham. I was not going to win a point from him, and I had learned a long time ago not to try.

“I’m here, Gunny, can somebody come get me?”

“What am I supposed to do with you for the next week while we sort out this cluster fuck?”

There it was again, the mysterious ‘cluster fuck’ reference.

“Put me to work, Gunny, that’s what I came out here for.”

Every now and then even I was capable of saying the right thing.

Cunningham spoke to someone on his end. “Get your ass over to the pad and pick him up. Jenkins?”

“Yeah, Gunny?”

“You better have your gear wired tight when you get here. I don’t need another fuck up in this already-fucked-up shit pie.”

“Aye Aye, Gunny.”

He paused, “Jenkins,” his tone had changed to something serious and significant.

Uh oh.

“When you get out here, you keep your mouth shut and you don’t ask any of your usual smart-assed questions. You find your rack (bed), get your shit stowed, and stay out of sight until I find you. You got that?”

This was really bizarre. I had picked up that something heavy was going down.

“OK, Gunny, whatever you say.”

He hung up. Wow. Well, at least somebody knew me, even if it was my old nemesis, Cunningham. A short time later, Lance Corporal Crisp picked me up in the Battery jeep. Not just cold sober, he looked like he had stepped away from a stateside uniform inspection, blouse starched, helmet strapped, boots shined, M-14 rifle perfectly cleaned and ready. He made me look and feel like Private Shit the Ragman.

Crisp turned out to be OK, in fact, he had a wicked sense of humor I would come to appreciate.

“Man, oh man, did you ever pick the wrong time to jump into this furball.”

Remembering Cunningham’s admonition, I was guarded. “What furball?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? That everybody in Chu Lai is drunk on warm beer?”

“Fuck that. You’re not going to believe the shit going down in Bravo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing much . . . except Corporal Nutcase fragged the CO (commanding officer).

“Fragged the CO?”

“Well, tried to.”

“Fragged the CO!”

“But he fucked it up.”

“Fragged? Like . . . threw a grenade at the CO?”

“Yeah, fucking grenade.”

“OK, “(Whoa!) “Tell me about it.”

“So, the CO, Captain Napoleon, has a hard on for Nutcase who is a supply guy, right? And Nutcase is getting really bent out of shape, I mean he’s really starting to lose it, like he is going off the edge ‘cause he thinks the CO who is, by the way, a crazy asshole himself, and you if you ever see him you should turn invisible if you get what I’m saying, anyway, Nutcase thinks the Napoleon is out to get him and send him to Da Nang for another full tour or some weird shit.”

“OK.”

“Anyway, this goes on. The CO is busting Nutcase’s chops and Nutcase is getting crazier and crazier. Then two weeks ago, somebody takes a dump in the CO’s boots.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Dumps a big loose load in the CO’s boots.”

“Somebody took a shit in his boots?”

“That would be affirmative.”

“How’d they do that?”

“CO puts his boots right out side the door of his hooch so they air out and don’t stink up the hooch. So somebody comes along at night and craps in them.”

“One boot or both boots?”

“Fuck should I know? Wasn’t like they was going to call formation and pass them around, like, “Can anybody identify these turds?”

Like I said, Crisp had a sense of humor.

“They said ‘boots,’ so that’s what I’m saying, boots. Fuck difference it make?”

“OK, some idiot shits in the CO’s boot . . . or boots. What happened?”

“Well, CO knows it’s Nutcase and goes after him, but Nutcase says, “Sir, I did not defecate in your foot ware, Sir.”

“Defecate. Foot ware.”

“Yep. CO screams, ‘Yes, you did, you fucking Kike.’ Did I mention that Nutcase is Jewish?”

"No."

“Yeah, Jewish. So Nutcase does not like that shit one bit. He says, ‘Prove it.’ CO says, ‘I don’t have to prove shit.’ Nutcase says, ‘Yes, Sir, that’s exactly what you have to prove, shit. You have to prove shit. You have to prove that shit came out of my puckered Kike ass hole and dropped into your shiny goddamn Goyim boots.’ Then the CO screams “I’m going to bust you to Private and you’re going to spend the rest of your fucking life in Leavenworth (federal penitentiary). You are restricted to your quarters. Sergeant-at-arms, get this filth out of my sight.”

Crisp, looked over at me, smiled.

“So . . . ?”

“So, that same night, it happened.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“They play Taps (he imitates the evening bugle call) Duh ta duh, Duh ta Duh. Nutcase sneaks up to the O-hooch (Officers’ quarters), opens the screen door and yells ‘Everybody but Napoleon get out!” He pulls the pin on a grenade and tosses it in. Fuck, man, hair, teeth, and eyeballs, the four guys who live in that hooch are diving for the other door. CO is out first and safe, wouldn’t you know? Then Gunner Salty ( Gunner is slang for warrant officer, not to be confused with Gunny which is slang for Gunnery Sergeant) gets out, then the XO (Executive Officer), he gets out, too. Top OldCorps (slang for First Sergeant) is last and not quite out the door when the grenade pops and he catches shrapnel everywhere down his back, legs, ass, head, everywhere.”

“Kill him?”

“No, but he’s pretty chewed up and already trying to deal it into a Purple Heart.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, go Top. So, what happens to Nutcase?”

“He’s got a bunch more grenades and his rifle and maybe some claymores (anti-personnel mines) and some other shit and he climbs on top of the 45 Club (a beer shack for corporals and sergeants) and gets behind the lookout. He’s hunkered down up there where he can see the whole camp and he’s yelling that we’ll never take him alive and that he’ll shoot anyone who comes after him.”

“Fuck me.”

“You got that right. So we all got our heads down and Doc (Navy corpsman/paramedic) patches up Top OldCorps gets him in the jeep and off to Wing hospital, and pretty soon, here comes the CO shouting orders and nobody is listening and Gunner Salty comes over and tells the CO to shut the fuck up. Gunner has steel balls, by the way, and he’s a good guy, and him and Nutcase have not got into each other’s shit, so Gunner just strolls over to the 45 and starts climbing the ladder. Nutcase is yelling ‘I’ll shoot you, I’ll shoot you,” but Gunner ignores him and just gets to the top and squats down and starts talking real low. This goes on for a while so we all pop up and come out to listen but we can’t hear what they’re saying. After a while we hear Nutcase laugh and then Gunner laughs. Gunner yells ‘Somebody bring us a couple of beers and some smokes.’”

“Shit.”

“Then the CO starts yelling at Gunner and Gunner yells “Shut the fuck up . . . Sir.” Then the CO yells some more and Gunner ignores him and we all know who is in charge of Bravo right now and it ain’t the CO. Finally we see Nutcase climb down.”

“Still have his weapon?”

“No. Gunner brings it down with him. They go into Nutcase’s hooch. After a while the MPs show up and take Nutcase away.”

“So what happened to him?”

“No word yet, but all we’ve been doing for two weeks is giving testimony and answering questions and covering our ass. CO vanished the day after the fragging and the XO is supposed to be in charge, but they transferred Gunner over to HQ (headquarters) and Top is out on the Repose (Navy hospital ship).”

“So who is running the show?”

“Cunningham.”

“Gunny Cunningham is running Bravo Battery?”

“Yeah, he showed up about three days ago, and, daddy-o, that man is the real deal. Took him one day to get us squared away. You’ll see how it is.”

“I already know how it is. I spent a year with Cunningham at 3rd LAAM.”

“Fucking A! When the shit comes down, I want that bad assed motherfucker in charge of my young self, Gung Fucking Ho.”

“Everyone feel that way?”

“You bet.”

Well, well, well. CO of Cluster Fuck Battery is fragged, or almost, and Cunningham is the big dog for all these Marines. Not what I expected of my combat mission to Viet Nam.

Down

what

rabbit

hole

did

I

fall

?

.

RAIN GEAR

.

Start your run in the rain. Avoid getting your feet wet. Dodge puddles. Run on the side of the path that has become a miniature Class II rapid.

But, sooner or later, you will mis-step and come down ankle deep in the creek. The other foot will plunge into a puddle you didn’t see until too late. Your feet are soaked and getting cold. But something wonderful happens; you no longer give a damn.

Splash ahead like some big-tired redneck swamp buggy. Look for “water features” to attack. Yeeee Haaaawwww.

Fierce winds arise and whip the trees. Respond by un-zipping your jacket so you can better feel the storm. Now you are getting soaked through and through. The howling gale makes you mad, quite mad. At the top of your lungs you must, you simply must roar lines from King Lear.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!

Snatch off your ball cap and shake out your hair, and should you happen to have a great mane of red curly hair, it’s quite a sight. Soon your big hair is drenched and flopping around in great loopy ropes.

You wonder why you are not getting cold, but if you really, really rip this run, like a cheetah, feet barely touching the ground, your body will super-heat and effortlessly fight off the chill. So you crank it up into a higher gear, rain gear, and let 'er rip.

Your loyal running companion, the Great Dog, likewise wet and ecstatic, hears your accelerated footfall and picks up her own pace. She looks especially noble today, head held high, soaked and fearless. She is two-toned, the top half sparkling gold, the bottom half, black mud.

The forest is dressed in its stark winter drab, leaves long-fallen from deciduous trees. You can see much further into woodland secrets. There’s an eagle nest in a digger pine. Been past here a hundred times and never seen it before. The mushrooms and fungus are busy with the miraculous work of transforming dead trees into rich topsoil.

Squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish.

Miles disappear beneath squishing shoes.

So soon?

Your tempestuous run has ended.

Back at the truck, open the door, the one away from the road and out of sight. Make yourself a little private dressing room between the door and the body of the truck. Strip off your soggy, cold clothes.

Stand there naked in the downpour; rain hitting your body and dripping off. Take a few steps away from the truck, still naked, and turn your face to the sky.

Let it all fall down on you.

OK, enough. Time to get going. You remembered to bring a towel this time. Briskly dry off. Doesn’t that feel good? If only you had brought dry clothes! Oh, you did. Ha! Snuggle into your warm, dry, scratchy sweats. Ooo la la.

Now for Miss Pooch who has been waiting patiently. Let her jump into the cab of your truck where you, with unprecedented foresight, have laid out her blanket. Using your own towel, dry her off. The towel is damp, but she doesn’t mind, it’s got your smell on it. Bend down to pick up your key, and as your head comes up, she’ll probably give you a huge lick, right across your nose. Slurp. Sputter and complain all you want. She knows you’re just pretending. Grins at you. Gratitude and love, that’s what she knows.

Slide into the drivers seat, turn on the engine, the heater, the wipers, and some rock and roll music. Hey, even the double-cupped coffee is still warm, well, kinda warm. Good enough and better than nothing.

Time now to make elaborate plans.

“Let’s go home.”

“Woof.”

“And get some chow.”

“WOOF!”

Is running in the rain a great party, or what?


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PARTY ON

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My God, last night on Facebook was like an old hippy party. Paul Hood and I drove around from thread to thread in a psychedelic VW van picking up members of the tribe like Maggidevi and Stacey who were just walking along the road and climbed in with their AMAZING IDEAS and their equally amazing ta tas, both of them, and Maggidevi caught me peeking, smiled sweetly and said "In your dreams, Bobba," and then we were bouncing off to some high place overlooking the river where we smoked a bowl of some REALLY GOOD SHIT and then started rapping our asses off regaling each other with some REALLY BIG IDEAS and laughing and crying until even you-know-who crawled up out of her menopausal funk and started giggling while Alys who was just ten feet tall wandered around in the woods chewing on a riddle and then returning with an answer but "not that, Alys, close, just keep trying" when we realized some tribe members were missing-in-action and we went to the edge of the cliff and yelled into the canyon "KELLLYYYYY (kellykellykelly) MARIEEEEEE (mariemariemarie) WHERETHEFUCKAREYOU (areyouareyouareyou) whereupon Susan complained that she actually had to go to WORK tomorrow and we all said "just one more story" and she said "OK" and then when we were just about out of steam along comes Bunny out of the shadows already looped with a bottle of Annie Green Springs and we’re off again. Kinda like that.

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INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART FOUR

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The Elephant

The supple flesh of her inner thighs. Her delicate firm breasts. The surprisingly coarse feel of her glossy black hair as it cascaded through my hands. How I wish the sensorial glories of my Okinawan paramour remained etched in my memory! But they don’t.

I’m making it all up.

What I do remember is the feeling of her hard little fist between my shoulder blades as she shoved me out her door and onto the pre-dawn streets of the village. She punctuated my ejection with her most sentimental farewell.

“Go away!”

With that soft murmur to comfort my low spirits, haunted by my dreams of Judy Vance, I wandered around lost. After a while Okinawan people began to emerge from their homes. I was able to employ my most useful Japanese phrase:

Takusi-wa doko desuka? (Where is the taxi?)

Following the gestures provided by amused villagers, I stumbled onto a main road and hailed a cab. In a stupor of fatigue and self-pity, I was conveyed back to the main gate at Camp Hansen. The MP (Military Police) on duty greeted me cordially. The conqueror returneth from his all-night victory!

Right.

At the barracks I showered and dressed in my most presentable uniform, which wasn’t saying much. I’d be lucky if some officer didn’t smoke me for my disreputable appearance. I shoved the wrinkled detritus of my few belongings into a sea bag.

Enough wasting time. Let’s get it on.

The transport chief, a gunnery sergeant, listened to my request for immediate passage to Nam. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or pissed off.

“You got another week until you have to report. Relax. Enjoy the last liberty you’re going to get for a year.”

“Gunny, please, get me out of here. I need to get to work.”

“God preserve me from Gung Ho FNGs.”

“FNGs?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The gunny consulted a couple of clip boards.

“You’re slotted for transport straight through to Chu Lai at zero nine hundred on the twenty third. You sure you don’t want to hang around? You can have a lot of fun on this rock.”

“Gunny, can’t you get me an earlier ticket? I’ll take anything.”

The gunny scribbled something on a piece of paper.

“Davis! Take this war hero over to Kadena. Scramble! His flight leaves in 45 minutes.”

“Thanks, gunny!”

He snorted.

Wheels up. A few bumpy hours over the South China Sea. Crossing the Viet Nam coast line. Below, rice paddies to the horizon, then roads, villages, towns, a big city, Da Nang. The airplane made a steep bank to port and an immediate screaming dive bomber attack on the air base below. Teeth crunching smash into the runway, screaming brakes, heavy G deceleration as all engines reverse. Shuttering stop. Silence. Breathe.

We whistled and cheered. Viet Nam. The NAM. The Real Deal.

Returning vets brag about the nauseating stench and the blast furnace heat that assault you when you greet Da Nang for the first time. Both descriptions are accurate, but I leaned into the heat. Embraced it. It’s supposed to be like this. Yeah!

As for the stench? I closed my eyes and inhaled, giving my full attention to the delectable compounds that swirled through my nose. Fine subtleties of diesel fuel and jet exhaust harmonized with a smoky piquancy of cordite, the pungent nip of chemical toxins, and there . . . just a trace of sewage! From this complex assemblage of malodorous compounds, I began to arrange a fascinating bouquet of exotic stinkage. Then, beyond my smart-assery, the ominous martial fragrances, I detected something remarkable, something just beyond the wire, a foreign, dreamy aroma.

Asia.

Fruity, fishy, earthy, spicy . . . Asia.

I loved it.

You should remember that I was traveling alone, not attached to a unit, just chugging along under my own steam into the theatre of combat. There was no one to tell me what to do, no sergeant barking orders to “get in line over there” or “report to the receiving depot.”

OK, I’m on my own. I figured I should get a look at Viet Nam before someone showed up to take charge of me.

I deplaned and wandered off down the runway toward a handsome formation of peaks that I would learn to call the Marble Mountains.

Marble Mountains

The Da Nang runways are long and it took me quite a while to hike to the end. It was worth the effort. I left behind the sounds or aircraft and generators. I found myself wrapped in solitude. I looked past the concertina barbed wire, beyond a no-man’s land of desecrated red earth, then past fields, paddies, little houses . . . Viet Nam.

I breathed and listened. There! Somewhere behind the Marble Mountains, I heard them. Far away, but unmistakable. Explosions. Our artillery giving it to somebody.

Yes! Deep and menacing, the crash of the Elephant moving through the bush.

The Elephant.

I was here.

At last.

After a while I heard a vehicle racing up behind me, a jeep with a couple of hard-eyed MPs.

“What the flat flying fuck are you doing out here?”

“Just having a look, Corporal.”

“Get your FNG ass into this jeep before someone blows it off, probably Corporal Stoneface (not his real name) here. He ain’t killed a dumbass FNG all week.”

Corporal Stoneface did not crack a smile. He wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were flicking back and forth across the tree line beyond the wire.

“FNG?”

“FUCKING NEW GUY!”

“Oh yes, that would be me. Fucking new guy. Newest, greenest, dumbest, fuckingest new guy you’ll ever meet.”

Corporal Cop relaxed, just a bit. He almost smiled.

“OK, as long as you got that straight.”

As we hurtled back down the runway, the MP began my orientation.

“We’ll drop you off at Receiving. Find your gear, check in and show them your orders. They’ll give you a rack (bed) and help you find a hop (airplane) to Chu Lai. Then you’ll be on your own. While you’re waiting you can go into Da Nang City, but it’s not a good idea right now. Lotta shit going down. Charlie (Viet Cong) slipping in and out. One of our pet Mama-sans (proprietress of a bar or brothel) says NVA officers (North Vietnamese regular army) are setting up something big, maybe tonight. So, take my advice, Lance, stay out of the ville.”

“Roger that, Corp.”

“There’s a slop shute (chow hall), a barber shop, you need a haircut, and a flick (movie). Keep it wired tonight, huh?”

“Rog.”

The other MP, Stoneface, never said a word. His eyes never stopped moving. His hand never left the butt of his forty-five. These MPs were strung tight.

Well-fed, spiffy hair cut by a tiny Viet Namese barber, showered (cold), and feeling squared away in relatively clean clothes, I sought out the Enlisted Club and launched a one-man assault on a formidable line of warm beers. The E-club consisted of a long bar and an expansive deck of picnic tables, mostly open to the sky, with a white-washed plywood movie screen at one end. Very cool. Sit out under the stars, sipping suds with your brethren, watching an old black-and-white movie. I’d like to tell you what the movie was, but you have to remember that I had been traveling for almost a week with too little sleep and too much booze. I was fried. I didn’t make it through the movie. Somehow I found my rack and passed out.

WHAT THE HELL!

That’s what it was like. Hell. The world had turned a demonic red. Sirens were screaming like the tortured souls of the inferno. For a moment I thought I had died and been plunged into the underworld. I jumped off my cot, tripped over something, and fell on my face. Marine warfighter at his most impressive. Men were running everywhere and yelling. I gathered my wits about me, aided by a flood of adrenaline rushing into my chest.

We were under attack.

The crimson hell-light was from dozens of red flares floating down in their parachutes. What should I do? I stuffed my feet into my boots and chased after a squad of armed Marines. I had no rifle, no gear of any kind, not even a helmet. Fortunately I had passed out in my clothes so I was not running around naked through the attack.

I followed the squad, sprinting out to the base perimeter. We tumbled into the trenches of the defensive emplacement. Panting. Big eyes. After a while, a sergeant came down the line.

“Where’s your weapon, Marine?”

“Just came in-country yesterday, Sergeant.”

“You should be hunkered down at Receiving. What are you doing out here?”

“Seemed like a good idea.”

He laughed.

“OK. Keep your eyes open and your head down. If Charlie gets one of us, pick up a weapon and get into the fight.”

“Roger that.”

“You OK, Marine?”

“I’m good, Sergeant, real good.”

He patted me on the shoulder and continued down the line.

We waited.

And waited.

Hours.

After a while I saw movement down the line. One of our patrols was coming in through the wire. I heard passwords and responses exchanged. The Recon guys ambled in to the revetments and immediately lit cigarettes. These men were the stuff. Recon Marines. Experienced, hard core, infantry vets. The professionals. I crowded close, hoping I could inhale some of their bravado.

“Just more bullshit,” a Recon sergeant was explaining to one of the officers, “nothing to it.”

“Fuck me,” yelled one of the staff NCOs, “Alright, Marines, stand down, light ‘em if you got ‘em.”
The Recon guys were chatting amiably, so I sidled up and asked one of them what had happened.

“Who the fuck knows. Some water buff sets off a claymore. Some sleepy rear echelon motherfucker has a wet dream and starts lighting up some pissant gook hooch. Everybody shits their pants and they send us out for a little stroll through Da Nang.”

“How close is Charlie?”

“Charlie? Hey, the NFG wants to know how close is Charlie?”

They laughed.

“Well, Marine, Sir Charles is right over there."

He pointed out into the darkness.

"Sir Charles is everywhere. But Sir Charles does not have the nads to pick a standup fight with the goddamn Marine Corps in the fucking middle of our turf. Sheeeee-it”

“Sheeeee-it” I echoed.

“You’ll be OK, Marine, but . . . “

“Yeah?”

“Get some fucking gear. You look like a goddamn tourist.”

I followed the men back in to headquarters, eventually found my hooch, and dropped down on my rack. Dawn was sliding over the horizon. When was I going to get a full night’s sleep?

Da Nang transport was even more casual than Okinawa. I hung around the air terminal until I could hitch a ride 60 miles south to Chu Lai. I wanted a chopper ride so I could see the sights, but I got a cargo plane. As it was my first ride in a C-130, I decided it would be a minor adventure.

C-130

Sitting alone in the cargo bay along with a full load of helicopter parts, I listened to the engines begin to whine. At the last moment, group of ARVN, South Viet Namese Army soldiers, climbed up the ramp and grabbed hold of the cargo straps. Some of them were still smoking cigarettes. They looked like Boy Scouts, but I was respectful. What did I know anyway? They had seen a lot more action than Lance Corporal Jenkins, FNG.

We rumbled down and down and down the runway. Will this behemoth ever get off the ground? Finally we got lift and slowly, slowly began to climb.

TING TING TING TING TING

Five machine gun rounds pinged into the undercarriage of the plane. Oh shit. We’ve been hit! The big plane banked hard to starboard, engines roaring. We held on to the webbing of our side-facing seats and waited to crash. But the plane kept banking and climbing.

“Are we circling to land back at Da Nang?” I yelled at the ARVN troopers who ignored me.

After a while, one of the Marine flight crew clambered down from the flight deck and made his way over to me.

He yelled, “You OK?”

“Yessir!”

“See any damage?”

“Uh, nossir?”

He looked around, then walked down the cargo bay and back up the other side, climbed the ladder way to the flight deck and into the cockpit.

I guess we’re not going to crash. The Elephant has a sense of humor. Ha ha.

The plane continued to gain altitude. After a few minutes it leveled out, and then in a few more minutes began to descend. Another hard bank to starboard, the plane leveled out, and delivered a neck-snapping slam into the runway. Guy at the stick thinks he’s a carrier pilot. The C-130 bounced along the tarmac, then came to a brake-screeching stop. The engines wound down. The ramp lowered. Impossibly bright sunlight poured into the bay. A member of the ground crew strolled up the ramp, looked over at me. Grinned.

“Welcome to Chu Lai.”

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