INTO THE GREEN WOOD--PART SEVEN

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Gunny

Cunningham. Gunnery Sergeant, USMC. I don’t remember, or I never knew, his first name, but Erwin or Walter, or something like that is stuck in my mind. If I featured him as a character in the film of my memory, I’d cast a big man, James Gandolfini, Tony Soprano, in the role. I’ll tell Gandolfini he has to lose 50 pounds and transform himself into a lean, mean, fighting slab of quick-twitch muscle if he wants to be my Gunny.

Cunningham was the original and, until my arrival, the only member of the newly-formed Delta Battery, 3rd LAAM (Light Anti Aircraft Missile) Battalion. My orders were to report to Delta Battery, my first duty assignment, at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry point, North Carolina. I arrived at the main gate and gave over my orders. The OD (Officer on Duty) made a phone call and told me to cool my heels. In a few minutes a jeep roared up, screeched angrily to a halt. Can jeeps screech angrily? This one did. The jeep’s only occupant sat there for a minute shaking his head and muttering to himself, then swung out of the driver’s seat and looked around.

I got a first look at the man who would become my private tormentor. Cunningham was a spit and polish Marine, every inch of his 6’2” frame shined and glittered. The creases in his uniform were so sharp you could shave with them. There were enough colorful campaign ribbons on his blouse to make a tropical salad. His eyes were piggy and mean, his face pock-marked and scarred from some childhood malady. He was terrifying.

His eyes landed on me. His jaw jutted out as he scowled. And from that moment, all of Cunningham’s elegant malice was concentrated on me. There was nothing about me, absolutely nothing, that Cunningham liked, not my hair cut, my uniform, my college boy vocabulary, or my face. He was Old Corps Infantry, transferred unwillingly to the Air Wing. He hated everything about his re-assignment, particularly me, Jenkins, Private (not even PFC Private First Class), lowest of the low.

His first words of greeting:

“Looking at you makes me want to puke. If I had to be around you for more than a day, I’d shoot myself in the head. But don't worry, Private Shitpie, I’ve got big plans for you.”

That’s how, the next day, I found myself on mess duty for one interminable, miserable month, a tour of frustration that climaxed when I dumped a full pan of hot pork-chops-in-gravy across the legs of four high-ranking BAMs (women Marines) who declared, for all to hear, that they would have my balls nailed to the door of the mass hall. Well, I still have them, my balls I mean, so somebody must have interceded on my behalf. Certainly not Cunningham. He would have watched the castration and cheered.

As the other members of Delta Battery began to arrive, I hoped Cunningham’s gaze would move along to some new sacrificial sap. Not a chance. Cunningham still had his “prize pupil” to pick on. Me. Every disgusting detail, arduous, spine-cracking, footsore humping, motherfucking, pissant crap job landed on yours truly.

Cunningham reserved his Special Jenkins Show for the PRT, the Marine Corps Physical Readiness Test, the highlight of which was Jenkins’ Fireman Carry. Step right up and pay your nickel, you won’t want to miss this.

Strolling to the other end of the field, Gunny would wail:

“Jenkins, Oh Jenkins, stinking shitpie, your beloved Gunnery Sergeant is sorely wounded. Would you be so kind as to come and save his beautiful Marine Corps body from grievous harm?”

He would then drop to the ground in a slow motion, melodramatic display, clutching his chest and screaming. The other men would laugh. Gunny was just SO funny. When he was picking on someone else.

I would race down the field where Cunningham was sprawled on his stomach, chewing a piece of grass, “grievous wounded,” and I would attempt to hoist him up on my shoulders and race back down the “battlefield” to deliver him into the loving care of the medics.

Or try. I weighed about 170 pounds. Like I inferred, Gunny was a big man, probably 225 pounds. He was also floppy (goddamn you Cunningham) dead weight which is the heaviest weight there is. The correct Fireman Carry technique is to roll the “wounded” on to his back, grab him by the front of his shirt, and smoothly lift him up and across your shoulders, get him balanced, and then run like hell. Or waddle. Or stagger. But, YOU WILL NOT LEAVE HIM BEHIND.

I pulled Cunningham up to his waist.

“Oh, oh it hurts.”

I got him up to his knees, him melting and limp.

“Save me, Jenkins, I don’t want to die.”

I squatted and wrapped my arms around his chest, we were cheek to cheek.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

I stood up, hugging him, his knees were buckling. Now I had most of his weight. What now?

“Are you going to carry me or fuck me?”

I tried to get under him, my right arm between his legs, but I lost control and he flopped back onto the ground.

“You’re killing me? Why is Jenkins trying to kill his Good ol’ Gunny?

I tried again and again and again, getting tired and more tired, exhausted. I could not get him on my shoulders. I was bent over, hands on my knees, panting. Gunny got up and bellowed at me.

“You fail, Jenkins! You fail the fucking PRT! You will take it again tomorrow and every day after that for the rest of your fucking life until you pass it!”

“Yes, Gunny, but . . .”

“You have something useful to say?”

“I passed the PRT in boot camp.”

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“The guy I had to carry was my own size.”

“Oh, well then, that explains everything. I am so sorry I ever doubted you.”

(Shit. Me and my big mouth.)

“You are saying that everything will be A-OK as long as the other Marines are just your size, but if some Marine bigger than you gets hurt, you will just leave him on the fucking ground? YOU WILL LEAVE THAT MARINE BEHIND?”

(What can you say to that?)

“I’ll do better next time, Gunny.”

He gave me a look of utter distain, and turned to the other men.

“Tomorrow, Jenkins here, and these other three shitpies will take the PRT all over again, while you . . . real Marines will stand at attention in this beautiful North Carolina sunshine until they get it right. Dismissed.”

“Except you, Jenkins, I’m not through with you.”

The rest of the Battery walked away shooting me dirty looks. Cunningham turned to me.

“Come here.”

I followed him back down the field.

“There’s a technique to the Fireman Carry that you got to get down if you have to lift somebody a lot bigger than you are. Lay down.”

I got down on the ground.

(What the hell was he doing?)

“Pull your man up to the waist. You did that part fine. Then, get him up to the knees. OK, so far, but that’s where you lost it. He’s nothing but floppy meat, he’s going to sag at the waist, and he’s not going to stay upright while you get ready for the next step. Understand?”

“Yes, Gunny.”

“So, first, your feet can’t be spread apart parallel to you shoulders, they have to be angled with your strong leg slightly in front, and in between his feet.”

He demonstrated.

“Now here’s the secret. You can take a second to rest after you pull him up to his waist, take a deep breath, and then you CAN NOT STOP AGAIN until he his across your shoulders. You pull him up, you squat low, you twist your strong side into him, get your shoulder under his center of gravity, and push up with your strong leg, ALL IN ONE MOTION. If you hesitate, you will lose him.”

Gunny squatted down over me, jerked me up to sitting position, then pulled me up to the knees and kept going. In a second I was across his shoulders, my upper torso and head hanging down behind him.”

“Take a moment to bounce him into balance.”

He bounced me.

“Get your Marine to safety.”

He ran a few steps, then dumped me, hard, on to the ground.

“Now, you do it.”

I tried. I tried. I was getting him a little higher, but I was also getting tired and frazzled.

“This time, I’m going to help you a little bit with my legs, so you can get a feel for it.”

I tried again. I could feel him give a last little shove off with his legs, just a tad, but enough for me to get him up and over my shoulders. Whew.

“OK, you got the feeling. Do it again. This time, no help. DO NOT HESITATE!”

Suck it up, Marine. He got on the ground. I pulled him up to the waist. Squatted low. Took a deep breath (OK you sonofabitch), ducked down, twisted, pushed up with my legs, and smoothly he was across my shoulders. I bounced him into balance and took off running.

“That’s enough. Put me down.”

I shrugged him off my shoulder and dropped him on his back. Not a sound. Not a smile. Not a word of encouragement or congratulations.

“Dismissed.”

The next morning Gunny ordered me and the other three failures out to formation 30 minutes early.

“Private Jenkins will teach you fuckwads the correct technique for the Fireman Carry. You better not screw it up.”

For a half hour I taught the tricks and secrets of the Fireman Carry, and by the time the rest of the Battery formed up, the Sad Sack Trio were prepared. Gunny announced that we losers were going to forego the early elements of the PRT and go directly to the Fireman Carry.

“Delta Battery, TEN HUT!” (Attention!)

The men snapped to attention.

“At Ease!”

The Marines relaxed but stayed in position in formation. Gunny must have got laid last night, he was in a “kindly” mood, or else he wanted the men to be able to watch and enjoy the show.

We four “performers” paired up. One rescuer, one wounded. The rescuer picked up the wounded, delivered him across the field, then switched roles, and the same pair executed the carry and run back across the field. All four of us were successful, we had passed the PRT. Thank God, that’s over.

No, it’s not.

Gunny trotted down the field, way down the field.

“Jenkins, Oh Jenkins, your beloved Gunnery Sergeant is hurt and bleeding.”

(Please, dear Lord, let it be true, bleed to death.)

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you run down here and save my sweet young self?”

Now I was pissed. I ran down that field, jerked him to his waist, then ducked, twisted, lifted, bounced, and ran back toward the men of Delta Battery with Cunningham on my shoulder. When I got back to the formation, I didn’t stop, I ran right through the formation, Cunningham bouncing up and down. Let me tell you that performing the Fireman Carry is tough, but being the wounded man banging around on that carnival ride is no fun either. Cunningham didn’t make a sound. He could have pushed himself off my shoulder at any time, but he endured the punishment as I ran beyond the parade deck, across the street to the unit barracks, to a little patch of grass, where I finally stopped, and dropped him on his ass.

The Marines whistled and cheered. Gunny didn’t even look at me. He just walked back to his place in front of the formation and took control. I knew I was probably going to be in some kind of fix for the “extra effort” I put in to my little demonstration. But I didn’t get in trouble. In fact, a few days later I got my promotion to PFC, and, glory, glory, Cunningham found new recruits to torture.

A year later, you can imagine my unease finding myself, once again, the NFG, this time in actual combat. I had arrived, early and unexpected, at Bravo battery, Chu Lai, Viet Nam, to find waiting for me, once again, Cunningham. Last night, at the E Club he gave me that nasty smirk.

What was Gunny up to this time?

At morning formation, my first formation in my new unit, I was mildly hung over, but looked more or less presentable, thanks to the generosity my hooch mates. Cunningham slammed out of headquarters hooch. A squad leader yelled, “Ten Hut!”

Gunny was adorned in a T-Shirt, cut-offs, combat boots, his salty, weathered fatigue cap, and a stub of a cigar clenched in his teeth.

He spoke about the soiled reputation of the unit and how he was going to clean us up or kill us. He announced that we were going to devote the first two hours of this sweltering, humid, steaming day in beautiful Chu Lai, VET Nam (that’s VET Nam not VIET Nam) to one of our favorite Marine Corps entertainments . . . the Physical Readiness Test.

Oh, Sweet Jesus. I knew what was coming.

We worked through the early events, the push ups, pull ups, and sit ups. Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for, you got it, the Fireman Carry. I already knew the script, so I just waited in the rear of the formation until everybody else had their turn. Cunningham walked down to the far end of the encampment.

“Jenkins!”

“I’m coming, Gunny”

I ran down to him and stood over him.

“Are you wounded, Gunny?”

“Grievous.”

“Would you like my assistance?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much inconvenience.”

“Not at all.”

I hoisted him up into the Carry in one clean motion, settled his balance, and ran back down to the men. I rolled him carefully, precisely, to his feet in the exact spot where he gave orders in front of the formation. Again, he didn’t look at me or say a word.

“Get your weapons, and fall out for the run.”

At that time, the standard rifle for the Marine Corps was the M-14, a beautiful, reliable, and robust piece of ordinance. If you ever ran out of ammunition, you could beat somebody to death with it. But you really don’t want to run long distances with the M-14, long distances such as the 3 mile Physical Readiness Test run, under the tropical sun.

We formed up, rifles across our chests, and launched the PRT run, the entire battery, about one hundred Marines, in step, down the red dust road, out the gate, and into VET Nam.

“I don’t know but I’ve been told”

“I DON’T KNOW BUT I’VE BEEN TOLD.”

“Russian pussy is mighty cold.”

“RUSSIAN PUSSY IS MIGHTY COLD.”

Everybody we passed looked at us like we were out of our minds, running, chanting, with rifles, in the heat and dust. But you know what? It was fun, really a kick in the pants, the raw sound of a Marine unit running, two hundred boots, slamming down in perfect unison. It always gave me a thrill, and it still does.

We finished our run and returned to the camp, our rifles filthy, ourselves, golems of red dirt and sweat, each of us about two swaggering inches taller.

Gunny wasn’t quite through.

“We are ordered to provide one Marine for a temporary assignment to Vietnamese language school at Camp Sukiran. They want someone who still has a full tour in front of him, and they want a volunteer. Jenkins!”

“Gunny?”

“You’re going to volunteer for this assignment.”

“But Gunny . . .”

“Did you hear what I said, you are going to FUCKINGVOLUNTEER! The rest of you, take what’s left of the morning to clean up. After chow, report to your section leaders at thirteen hundred hours (1 o’clock in the afternoon). Sergeant, dismiss the men.”

“DISMISSED!”

I followed Gunny back to his hooch.

“You got something on your mind?”

“Gunny, what the fuck is going on? I just got here yesterday. I haven’t even unpacked or washed my clothes. Why are you still on my ass? Why are you sending me away?”

He looked at me for a moment, figuring how to respond.

“For the next month, maybe more, this place is going to be crawling with every JAG investigator, every Colonel’s flunky, for all I know the God Almighty IG (Inspector General) himself. You don’t want to be caught up in this pile of vomit, and some how, Jenkins, you will manage to get the stink of this fragging thing on you. I know you. Your big mouth always leads you into the exact middle of every shit storm that blows in. But, you don’t need this. You don’t deserve to be a part of it. I’m putting you out of sight where you may, I say “may,” be able to keep your nose clean. And if you do keep your head down and stay out of sight, I’ll have use for you when you get back. You get me?”

“I guess so.”

(sigh)

“How long is the assignment?”

“Five or six weeks.”

“Where is the school?”

“Okinawa.”

“OKINAWA! I just left Okinawa a few days ago. I hate Okinawa.”

“Oh, Boo Hoo. Need a hankie?”

(sigh)

“When do I leave?”

“This afternoon. Get your gear together. See Crisp for your orders. He’ll take you to the strip to get your flight.”

(deep breath)

“Aye, Aye, Gunny.”

As I walked back to my hooch to clean up and pack, it started coming together. I had completely misinterpreted Gunny’s plan for me, the tough assignments, the glare of his spotlight, the endless ass-busting. I actually was one of his “prize pupils.” Saving my balls from the wrath of the BAMs? The promotion to PFC that followed so closely my triumph with the Fireman Carry? All of it, Gunny! It had to be. Even this morning’s reprise of the Jenkins PRT was Gunny’s way of showing me off in a way that established my credibility with the other Marines.

“Did you see Jenkins snatch that bastard right off his hard ass and trot him back down the hill?”

Now, Gunny was putting me out of harm’s way, protecting me from the stench of the impending investigation. His whole strategy came into focus, it all fit together. I understood something, something I have carried with me for the rest of my life.

You have to be toughest on the ones you love most.

That’s the way it works.


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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

.

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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