The sergeant of the guard finally appeared and told me to stand down, and to follow him in. I trudged behind full of questions, but to tired to ask, or care about the answer. He led me to a steamy tent and told me it was my new home, then he pointed out the mess hall and walked away. The thought of a greasy breakfast held no interest for me, so I found a dirty, worn cot and lay down, feet hanging over the end. I slept all day and through the night, only getting up to go to the head, a no-show to the world. Until the next morning when someone, kicking my cot, woke me.
“Up and at it, my friend. It is time once again to assume your role as marine.” He was short, thin, and had a bulbous nose, owl eyes, and olive skin. He resembled Joey Bishop. “I am your squad leader, Corporal Greene. The first sergeant desires your presence in his office.”
I yawned, my mouth wide enough to stick a fist into, and checked him out. He wore starched utilities, a blocked cover, and spit-shined boots. I made my way out of my rack and stuck out my hand. “Private First Class Murphy, corporal.”
He shook my hand and I noticed how smooth his skin was, like a baby. He smelled of soap and talcum powder.
“Follow me and we will get the first unpleasant detail out of the way.”
I stood at attention in front of the first sergeant’s desk, staring at the company guidon hung on the wall. Beneath it, a placard warned that loose lips sank ships. Another reaffirmed the credo of “Semper Fi,” in case some of us forgot. Corporal Greene stood behind me, leaning against the bulkhead. The first sergeant sat at his desk, his belly spilt over his belt line and laying in folds. He looked like the side of beef he obviously polished off on a daily basis.
“Pa . . . rade, rest. Welcome aboard PFC. Welcome to the 1st Shore Party Battalion, 1st Marine Division.” He grinned like a first time poppa. “The Marine Corps Big Red One. The Army thinks they own that moniker exclusively—wink, wink—but we know better, right?” The smile vanished. “I am proud to be a member of this elite division, and so shall you. And you will convey that pride by falling out daily dressed in clean, unwrinkled fatigues, with your boots polished, face shaved, and,” he pointed to his brush-cut hair, “noggin’ high-and-tight.” He leaned over to inspect the outsides of my trousers. Sewn on each, at knee level, was a rectangular red patch approximately an inch or so long that designated I was a member of shore party.
“Show me your cover.”
“Yes, first sergeant.”
I pulled it from behind me and let him inspect it. He grunted, satisfied that a patch was there also, as per regulations.
“You are assigned to perimeter guard. Twenty-four hours on, twenty-four hours off. When not on duty, all hands will present themselves in front of this company office at 0630 hours for working parties. Such details will include garbage runs, police calls, filling sandbags, and burning shit.”
“Burning what, first sergeant?”
His grin reappeared. “You’ll find out.” Then disappeared. “Be advised that I do not want to see you in front of my desk unless you have a problem that cannot be handled through the chain of command. However, if you do end up here it will automatically piss me off, and I’ll fry your ass for wasting my, and the Marine Corps, time. Now, do you have any questions?”
“No, first sergeant.”
“Outstanding! Dismissed.”
I came to attention, did a smart about-face, and marched out the building, Greene following. I stopped on the wood pallets that served as walkways, and looked at the rocks lined alongside in the dirt. Painted white but showing wear.
When Greene stopped next to me, I told him, “Bet I'll be recoating those in the near future.”
“The odds are definitely in your favor.”
“So . . . what’s the next unpleasant detail?”
He shuddered. “Breakfast.”
Morning chow was powdered eggs that tasted of cardboard, bacon with the elasticity of rubber bands, and coffee full of grounds. The apple on my tray had wormholes.
I sighed. “Don’t get much better than this.”
Greene forked at his eggs, looking for parts edible. “This is fine cuisine compared to what the cooks usually serve.” He put his fork down, and gently dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Questions?”
“Just confused about what happened last night.” I told him about what had gone down.
“That’s the first shirt’s standard operating procedure for new arrivals. He claims that the experience separates, and I quote,” Greene’s voice went throaty, “ ‘the wheat from the chaff.’ Personally, I think that he is exclusively a sadistic SOB.”
“But why didn’t they issue me no ammo?”
“Then what? Have you ventilate the USO by shooting at apparitions. The division commander would then post the first sergeant to the North Pole on permanent fire watch.” Greene picked up his fork and, with effort, ingested some eggs.
“Uh . . . I don’t think the Marine Corps has any camps on the North Pole.”
Greene sighed, “It was a witticism.”
“I don’t get cha.”
“The North Pole. Snow and ice. Slim opportunity for a conflagration.”
“Oh yeah. Heh-heh.”
“In the future I’ll endeavor to make the humor less complicated.”
“Good idea. My father always told me I was about as sharp as cotton.” I studied him. “Why are you dressed so strac? In a war zone, yet. And in this heat.”
He shrugged. “I am fussy about my appearance.”
“The first shirt said I had to be squared away, everyday. Is he fussy too?”
“Only about you.”
“How does he get away with being so fat. Ain’t that against regulations?”
“Simple. He is an old salt. He has close to thirty years in the ranks, and the rules of standard do not apply in his case.”
The vile victuals finished, Greene escorted me to a warehouse where a dorky-looking supply sergeant, glasses banded together at the bridge with white first aid tape, issued me a flak jacket, ammunition, grenades, pop-up flares, and CS gas canisters. He took my M-14 rifle and gave me the newer M-16’s. Then, with a yawn, he stated that, “It’ll probably jam, so be prepared.”
Blammo! Whatever good feelings I had from finally being armed, got blown to smithereens.
I fell in step beside Corporal Greene as we headed for the perimeter, “How safe is it here?” I asked.
“You’re in the rear, but technically, there is no rear area in Vietnam. Nor a front. Not like there was in World War Two.” Greene stopped and pointed at the ground. “We, now, are here. They, now, are everywhere else.”
“Sounds like Custer’s Last Stand.”
“Apt description. But we have both the superior man and firepower. I’ve read reports that there are some insurgents down in the Delta armed with only bows and arrows.”
“Like I said, Custer’s Last Stand.”
He stepped off again. “Now, in military parlance, I have to put ‘the poop to you’ in regards to this detail. You will pull guard with three other marines. One of them is Lance Corporal W. F. Goodman, and unfortunately, he is your fire team leader.”
“Unfortunately?”
“Pay heed and be so advised that in his hometown he is a member of the Ku Klux Klan, indoctrinated to its ideologies since childhood.”
“You’re kidding?”
“In present-day jargon, Goodman is a redneck. In my people’s idiom, he is a putz.”
At our destination, I saw that this section of the perimeter faced rice paddies, a deep colored green and terraced into rectangular and circular sections. Knee-high berms crisscrossed the landscape providing walkways through the irrigated rice beds. Large steers dotted the countryside, occasionally shaking their heads and swishing their tails. Others pulled tillers. Kids rode high on the backs of the laboring beasts, slapping the steer’s huge behinds to keep them moving. Adults were busily engaged in agronomy, others were idling on smoke breaks, scythes over their shoulders or used as leaning posts.
On my side of the fence stood a twelve-foot tall bunker constructed out of heavy, wooden planks. The back had an entrance, the front had two rectangular cutouts for firing, each with sills to level a rifle for aiming. Openings were also cut in each supporting wall. Sandbags, waist high, girdled the outer structure, and sat six layers deep on top. Three additional layers of bags framed the circumference of the roof providing added protection to those topside. Fighting holes were dug alongside.
Someone sat with his back against the wall, cover down over his eyes. Corporal Greene stood in front of the dozing figure and looked down, his eyes hard. “Eighty-six the siesta Goodman, you have company.”
The guy on the ground slowly pulled his hat brim back revealing bristly red hair, a face full of freckles, and skin chalky white. He looked at Greene, clearly in dislike. “Just checking out the backs of my eyelids, Corp, lookin’ for holes in case I gotta survey ‘em.”
“That’s corporal to you, funnyman.” Greene glanced into the bunker. “Where are the other sentries?”
Goodman extended his thumb. “Up top.”
“Asleep, I presume. What if they, and you, come under attack”
Goodman stood, dwarfing over Greene. He was my height, but where I was lean, he was fleshy and flabby. Close up, I could smell his foul breath. “Ain’t nothing out there,” he gestured, “but slant-eyed farmers shittin’ on the food they’re gonna be eatin’ next harvest.”
Greene replied in a quiet voice. “I do not care what is, or what is not, out there. Get those men awake and alert . . . right . . . now.”
Goodman banged the wall and yelled angrily, “Rise and shine and toe the line.”
I heard movement up top and the backs of two heads appeared above the sandbags. Goodman leaned into Greene’s face. “Good enough for you . . . Corporal?”
Greene smiled and spread his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “You are this close W. F., beware. I can easily picture myself, pen in hand, writing you up for insubordination. It is my understanding that there is always a vacancy in the Da Nang brig. Perhaps there, you may learn that you are not as tough as you imagine yourself to be.”
Goodman’s jaw clenched.
“This is Private First Class Murphy,” Greene continued. “Do not corrupt him with your racist dogma or your provocateur behavior.” Goodman blinked, the words obviously sailing over his head and into the blue. “Kindly inform him of the finer points of sentry duty, that is, if you are familiar with them yourself.”
Greene stared hard at Goodman for a moment, then walked away. When he was out of earshot, Goodman muttered, “Kike.”
I looked at him. “Say what?”
“Kike. A Jew. His real name is probably Greenbaum.”
I said nothing.
“You know what a Jew is, don’t you?”
“A religion?”
Goodman rolled his eyes. “Where are you from?”
“Indiana.”
“No.” He pointed a finger at me. “What are you?”
“Homo erectus.”
“Homo?”
“Not what you think.”
He blinked again, and I began to suspect that his brainpan was low on oil. “No. No. No. Who are your people?” He rubbed his jaw in contemplation. “Murphy. Ain’t that Irish?”
“Yep.”
“Micks are OK. Just boozers.”
“You’re a trip.”
He blinked at me twice, then sat down. “Listen up. Communication with the rear is over land line telephones called Lima-Limas. Every hour the sergeant of the guard will call and ask for a sit-rep, a situation report. In between, if you see or hear you anything you gotta call and report to the same guy.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothin’. You wait while he gets the officer of the guard.”
“What if the guy’s off takin’ a leak somewheres?”
Goodman shrugged. “Then you’re really screwed. You can’t bust caps without permission, even if you’re fired at.”
“Man, you gotta be shittin’ me.”
Goodman worked up and spat a huge goober. “No man, I ain’t shittin’ you.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“Believe it, boot.”
I took a sip of canteen water, ignoring his insult.
“And,” he continued, “did you see those cows out there?”
“I think they’re steers.”
“Just shaddup. If you kill one of them, you’re really in deep shit. Those are water buffaloes and the military has to pay the gooks big bucks for any that gets blowed away.”
“What can you shoot?”
“Your foot.”
I chuckled, then asked, “What’s the word on Greene?”
He looked constipated. “Who? Mister fancy pants know-it-all. He’s a college boy, some kind of are-ka-teck or somethin’. Sits at his desk full of pens and pencils and shit, drawing stuff.”
I refrained from delving into Goodman’s educational accomplishments. “What’s your initials W. F. stand for?”
He beamed, showing yellow and beginning to rot teeth. “William Felix.”
I laughed shortly. “Felix? Like the cat?”
Goodman lunged to his feet, but he couldn’t tower over me, so it was a wasted gesture. “You think it’s funny?”
“Hey dude, I was just askin’.”
He eyed me narrowly. “I’m named after a famous confederate Civil War general named William Felix Brantley. He was born and bred in Mississippi.” Goodman thumbed his chest in cadence with his words. “Just . . . like . . . me.”
“That so?”
“Don’t tell me you ain’t never heard a him. Didn’t you study the Civil War in school?”
“I must of been sick that day.”
Goodman blinked again and sat back down with a grunt, and I looked down at his wrinkled, sweat stained cover.
Just what I need. A Mississippi shitkicker!
