"All Marines die in either the red flash of battle or the white cold
of the nursing home.

In the vigor of youth or the infirmity of age all will
eventually die but the Marine Corps lives on.

Every Marine who ever lived is living still, in the Marines who claim the title today.

It is that sense of belonging to something that will outlive our own mortality. It is belonging to something which gives people a light to live by and a flame to mark their passing."

Author/Unknown

Sometimes the world seems so small it scares me. This is one such story. I keep asking myself, what are the odds?

It was the Fall of ‘66. September? October? Around there sometime. The whole company was on an operation. Search and Destroy. We’d been sloshin’ the paddies for a few days at least. We’d just gotten a bunch of new guys. Replacements. It was the first operation for most of’em. We’d had activity, but nothing really heavy duty. It was a perfect opportunity for the new guys to get their feet wet. Literally. We’d had our share of snipers, but I normally didn’t pay much attention to’em. I figured the safest place to be was in their sights. With very few exceptions the gooks couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a frying pan. If they actually did hit anything it was just dumb luck. Good for them, bad for us.

The operation was winding down. We were on our way back...to where I’m not sure, but I do remember we were looking forward to getting there. We were in column. Good separation. Strung out forever, and moving fast. Real fast. We were in a rice paddy area. We were crisscrossing the whole area going from dike to island to dike. Trying to stay dry. We weren’t snoopin’ and poopin’. We were really moving it out.

In this one area we were taking sniper fire from the left flank, and we simply didn’t care. It sounded like a slow fire BAR. Three or four rounds at a time. From three or four hundred meters away. Occasionally we’d get a splash or two in the paddies, but nowhere near where we were. We just kept on walking. At this point we were skirting a village on an island in the paddy. We were up on dry ground. I remember being amazed at how little I cared if somebody shot at us. Another classic Private Holt stupid thought.

This sniper had popped off two or three times already, but he got lucky with the next attempt. Pow Pow Pow. We kept on trudgin’. A few seconds went by before somebody behind me yelled, “Corpsman!” There was no fear in the voice. No despair. Just a good loud, “Corpsman up!” My only thought was, “Aw shit! What the hell is wrong. Now we’ve got to stop the column!” Because the voice was so calm I just figured somebody had tripped over their own feet or something equally as lame. A few seconds later the same voice yelled to hold up the column. We relayed the message up through the column...an echo that grew dimmer as the word got closer to the front. We stopped. I was pissed.

I couldn’t see who had yelled. They were just around the bend. I stomped back there looking for whoever was responsible for holding up the column. As I came around the bend I saw one of the new guys sitting down, and a couple of the other guys standing around him. I think the guy’s name was Shannon. He showed no fear. No trauma. He actually looked embarrassed. My first thought was that we’d better spread out. That worthless sniper might consider our little group to be a pretty good target. As I walked towards them one of the guys says,

“He’s been shot.” I didn’t see an obvious wound. He didn’t look like he’d been shot. He was sitting up with this stupid look on his face.

“What the fu.. are you talkin’ about?”

“He’s been shot in the legs.”

The corpsman got up to him just as I did. No shit, he was bleeding in both legs above the knees. We all spread out some and let Doc do his work. He cut open both trouser legs and perused the situation. I was the nosiest I suppose so I got down on one knee next to him. The bullet had gone through his left leg and entered his right. There was no exit wound on his right leg. There wasn’t a lot of bleeding, which was a good thing. No arteries were hit or anything like that. The holes were just leaking some. While Doc was wrapping a dressing around one of the holes in the left leg I noticed that the entrance hole in the right leg had gotten real ugly, and I said so. All blue. It started to swell even while we were gawking at it. Doc reached over and sorta poked at the edges of the hole. I was staring all the while, and when Doc touched the wound the bullet popped out of the guys’ leg. Just popped out! We all shouted, and then we all laughed. This bullet had obviously just penetrated the skin on his right leg, and when it was pressed the bullet popped out like a pimple. It was the most comical thing I’d ever seen! We were all giggling like kids when Lieutenant Woodburn walked up. He just didn’t see the humor in the situation. I mean, he hadn’t been there when the bullet popped out so his main thoughts were on getting this guy medivaced, not sitting around telling stories about it. We had to get the column moving as soon as possible.

While the Lieutenant was making arrangements for the chopper we were trying to figure out how to get this guy to the helozone. We put the bullet in Shannons’ breast pocket and buttoned it up. Not many guys could say they had the bullet that shot’em. He could move both legs, but he was in no shape to walk any distance. We decided that we’d have to carry him, but how? Somebody thought we could make a stretcher, but that was too much trouble. The Lieutenant thought we should use a two-man carry, and use our rifles for Shannon to sit on. We’d all seen this in training, but it’s a lot more awkward than it looks. With this two man deal you had to walk sideways. The patient was fine, but we were killing ourselves. Just to add a cherry on the cake, Shannon decided finally that he was going to faint. Then wake up. Then faint. Then wake up, and so on. If I was pissed before, I was really getting disgusted with him now. I know he was wounded and all, but I sure wish he’d make up his mind. Be conscious or unconscious, but pick one and stay with it, will ya?!

In my most humble way I stopped holding up my end of the two rifle deal and said,
"Excuse me Sir, but I think I can carry him a whole lot quicker and easier with a regular firemans’ carry."

One look at us and he agreed. We looked like a Chinese fire drill trying to maneuver this guy along. Shannon was conscious at this point so we just propped him up for a second, and I just slung him over my shoulder. I was told the helozone was just around the bend on the other side of the village. A couple of hundred yards at most. One of the guys grabbed my pack, and somebody handed me my rifle and off I went. Lieutenant Woodburn led the way. He trotted ahead of me. He followed the trail along the edge of the village island, but I figured the more direct route towards the front of the column was straight across the swoop in the trail, across the paddy, then around the bend of the island. It wasn’t far, and the water wasn’t deep. My feet sunk in the mud only a few inches. The water came up to mid calf. Not bad at all. I was making great headway as I rounded the bend, but I didn’t see any CP group or even hear a helocopter.

All the guys in the column were sitting right where they’d stopped, on the edge of the paddies, up a foot or so near the dry trail. They thought I was entertaining, splashing along the way I was. I was still doing pretty well, but Shannon wasn’t gettin’ any lighter. I was crossing an open paddy area. There were guys just sitting on the dikes observing my progress. As I was sloggin’ by a couple of guys I asked them,

“Where’s the CP?”

They said, “Up there just a ways. Just around the next bend. Do you want me to take over for a while?”

“Thanks for the offer, but it’s no problem.”

I was beginning to puff a bit by this time, but I was determined, so I just shrugged Shannon to reposition him a bit, and I continued my trek. I’d lost track of the Lieutenant, and I still didn’t hear a helicopter. In the midst of all this Shannon had fainted once or twice which was fine with me because at least he wasn’t moaning when he was unconscious. I slogged along for a couple of hundred yards till I rounded the next bend. Still no CP. I asked some other guys.

“How far to the CP?”

“Not far. Do you need a hand?”

I was beginning to suck wind by now and my legs were stiffening, but I wasn’t gonna give up at this point.

“Naw. I got it under control.”

As I was progressing around a second rice paddy island I began to hear a helicopter. It was in the distance, but getting closer. I was runnin’ out of gas...fast. I was concentrating on my legs. They were a mess. Rubbery. If I bent my knees I’d probably collapse. When I looked up I saw a couple of guys with radios just fifty yards or so away. Finally, the CP! Lieutenant Woodburn was up ahead giving me the double time signal. The chopper was coming in, and they wanted the casualty to get on in as short a time as possible. I tried. I really tried.

I could barely walk, much less run by this time. It was all I could do to stay upright, but I’ll be damned if I was going to give up now. Just then the shooting started. The helicopter was landing up ahead less than a hundred yards away, making all sorts of racket, and the local snipers thought it was the perfect target. Here again, I didn’t care all that much about the snipers. I was focused on getting Shannon to the helo. I noticed a couple of rounds splashing in the paddy, but not near me or the helo that I could tell, but Woodburn ran up to me and told me to get down. We were being fired upon.

Orders are orders so I attempted to lower Shannon into the paddy. The second I bent my knees my legs collapsed. Face first I went. I tried to get up, but I immediately fell back in the mud. My legs had given up the ghost. The muzzle of my rifle went straight into the mud. Shannon tumbled off to who knows where? In the middle of all the noise and mud, our guys had started to return fire. They didn’t know where they were shootin’, but I’m sure they felt better in doing so.

As I was spittin’ out mud (?) I looked up and there was Woodburn telling me to get Shannon up and to the chopper. I was sitting flat in the paddy, and my legs were floppin’ around like they had a mind of their own. I was helpless. With the helo noise, the gunfire, and the Lieutenant yelling at me I knew there was only one thing I could do. I yelled,

“Haaalp!!!”

The first fella I saw was Dawson. He was in the middle of a laughing fit when I yelled. I musta been a sight, but I didn’t think things were all that funny. He ran over to us from his spot on the trail, and as he approached he looked over my shoulder with surprise. A complete change of facial expression in less than a second. I turned around to see what had impressed him so much, and I immediately went nuts.

Shannon had jumped to his feet, and as I turned, was running to the helicopter. Sure he was limping some, but he was moving out at a pretty good clip. Sprinting through the mud. My first thought was that I was gonna shoot him...right in the ass. Nope. In the head. I was so pissed. My muzzle was plugged with all sorts of shit. I found a floating twig and frantically tried to get the plug of mud from my flash suppressor. Then I dunked my M-14 in the water trying to wash any mud from the bore.

All this going on while Dawson resumed his laughing fit.

In those few seconds I saw Shannon clamber into the helo. Then it took off and climbed in a circle until the sound finally faded. The shooting had stopped...on both sides. The only sound that I heard was Dawsons’ giggling. I still couldn’t get to my feet. I’d tried a couple of times, but I kept falling over. Getting madder and madder. Eventually he helped me up.

I spent the remainder of the day falling down. I could walk OK, but if I went down even a slight slope my knees would buckle. I spent the next day or two pondering the question, would I have shot Shannon? Of course not. I sure wanted to, but I’m almost sure I wouldn’t have. Almost. I never saw Shannon again.

Many years have passed. I’ve told this story to only folks who would understand. Mostly former grunts, but occasionally, with enough wine, I’d tell it at other gatherings. The story has pretty much stayed the same with every telling. There is no need to embellish the events. Just another example of stupid Private Holt stuff. This can be entertaining to the right audience.

A few years ago I joined the First Marine Division Association. The annual July convention was in Vegas that year so I went in the attempt to perhaps find some of the guys from India Company. The Hastings guys in particular. In order to attend the banquet it was necessary to join the Association. I filled out the simple form, and that was that. Good banquet. Great time. I found Lt. Williams on that trip.

A month or so after the convention I received an April issue of the Old Breed, the main publication of the First Mar Div. I’d never seen an issue before, and I was fascinated by all the names and unit descriptions that are listed in each one. New members, old members, life members. I was laying in bed, trying to read myself to sleep, going over the names. I perked up when I saw the name “Shannon”. Patrick Shannon. I never knew Shannon’s first name. I supposed it could be the same guy. This Shannon was listed as a new member. He was with I 3/5 in ‘66. This was too weird. It couldn’t be. I went to sleep.

Shannon was the first thing I thought about when I woke up the next morning. Same curiosity I went to sleep with. I felt a little stupid, but I went to the phone, called information, got the number of this Patrick Shannon, and gave it a try.

Three rings.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, hello. Is this Patrick Shannon?”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m sorry to bother you , but I saw your name on the list of the First Mar Div members. It says you were with India Company,3/5.”

“Who’s this?”

“Were you shot in the legs?”

“That’s right...Hey, who the hell is this?!” It was him all right.

“This is the poor tired son of a bitch that had to carry your sorry ass to the helicopter!”

“What? Say that again.”

We talked for twenty minutes. He couldn’t believe it. He blathered some such thing about the disability on his knees, but we just jabbered away about a bunch of stuff. When I hung up I sat down and pondered the odds of us ever coming in contact again. It’d been twenty nine years. I saw his name in a publication that I’d never subscribed to. The more I thought about it the creepier it seemed.

The phone rang. It was Shannon again. He just couldn’t believe that I’d called. He had to call back just to be sure he hadn’t imagined it.

As it turns out, the wounds really affected his knees. He eventually got mustered out because of his left knee. He’d gotten treatment on the left knee for years, but when the right knee got to be too painful he went to VA and tried to get treatment for it also. They said they had no record of a wound to his right knee, only his left. They acknowledged scarring on the right knee, but didn’t have any evidence that it was service related. The bullet hole simply didn’t impress them. His lawyer thought it would be a good idea to join any and all service organizations where he might somehow come in contact with anyone that was an eyewitness to the wounds. Talk about a needle in a haystack! There were only four or five guys who were even there. What were the odds of anyone remembering his name? He’d only been with the Company for less than a month. It was inconceivable that anyone could help him, but he joined anyway. Four months had gone by when I called.

This makes me goofy just thinking about it. No wonder he thought I was a figment of his imagination.

To make a long story short, I wrote a letter to the VA. I explained my account of the incident. He’s since been approved for treatment of his right knee. All is well.

If this isn’t cool enough for you... I called Doc Kunkel a few months after all this. In the middle of the conversation it occurred to me that even though Doc was new to India Company he might have been there when Shannon was shot. I started to run the story by him. I hadn’t gotten very far with my inquiry when he interrupted,

“Was this the guy who had the bullet pop out of his leg? Wasn’t that the most unforgettable thing you ever saw?”

Well Doc. I guess so.

Author/PH

I saw some disgusting stuff when I was in the Corps. When I think about it I can come up with all sorts of little flashbacks that make me wince. Truly disgusting memories can do that to you. We all have’em. Lifelong experiences that stay tucked away in our little brains until, for some reason, they just pop out.

I’m not talking about embarrassing stuff. Or scary stuff. I’m talkin’ about moments in your life when you have the bad luck to see somethin’ that just makes shudder. When I was in grade school I remember a kid showing us how he fed mice to his snake. I was so disgusted. I couldn’t even open my eyes when the snake cornered the mouse and latched on, but the memory that sticks with me is when we walked by the snake’s cage later that afternoon, and there it was with this huge bulge in his body a couple of inches downstream from it’s head. Ugh! What was I, ten maybe? I remember thinkin’ that was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.

Of course fellas think disgusting stuff is entertainment. At least that’s what we tell each other. In high school, and later in the Corps, guys would make an art form out of it. Do barbaric or disgusting stuff just to get a rise outa the other guys. A real riot. One day after somebody pointed out something particularly disgusting, I remember the comment that followed. “That ain’t disgusting. Hickeys on your hemorrhoids, now that’s disgusting!”

Some other guy one upped him with, “Naw, that aint’ disgusting. Hickeys on your grandma’s hemorrhoids, now that’s disgusting!” It just kept goin’ and goin’. We were laughin’ like hell. What makes disgusting stuff funny to guys? It’s a mystery.

Even though guys have a list of disgusting stuff in their heads I feel sorta special because I can remember the most disgusting thing I ever saw. No matter what I’ve seen before or since I always come back to this one moment. If anybody ever mentions anything disgusting, or even uses the word, I guarantee my memory bank will rewind to one special event on the USS Renville in 1966. This deserves a lengthy explanation.

In March of ‘66 the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines boarded the USS Renville, a troop transport. It was the first time Private Holt had ever been on a ship. I was excited. It was a completely new experience for me and I was lovin’ every minute of it. We stood in lines forever waiting to get on the damn thing. It wasn’t all that big, and we were putting something like fifteen hundred guys aboard so it took a while. We were given a few seconds of instruction on how to board a ship. Walk up the gangplank, salute the colors, which were aft, then salute whoever the officer of the deck was as we said “Request permission to come aboard Sir”. They salute back and say "Permission granted." Then we’d follow the line of guys going below decks and get assigned a rack, which was nothing more than a canvas platform.

Real confusion. We had field transport packs and they weren’t any small matter to maneuver around those cramped areas. A bunch of screamin’ and jostling. We were told to put our packs and rifles on the racks then jump in the rack as best as we could. Looking back, I’m surprised more guys didn’t get affected by the close quarters. We were crammed in! Especially with all our gear and stuff. We were told to stay in our racks until everybody got squared away. I had a rack that was three up off the deck, which were stacked five or six high. Private Holt was just as excited as could be.

We’d been given a C ration as part of our gear because somebody reckoned that gettin’ to chow would be a trial that first evening so I just laid there in my brand new rack on my brand new ship and chomped away on some peanut butter and crackers.

I couldn’t really feel the ship move. I mean we were tied up at the pier. Later that afternoon I began to feel movement. Somebody said that we’d just “shoved off”. Private Holt was just so damn excited. I couldn’t just lay there and miss the spectacle of my first sea voyage so I clambered out of my rack and went topside. I wasn’t the only guy who had the idea so there were maybe a hundred or so guys on deck. All at the rails looking at the breakwater of Long Beach harbor slip by slowly. It was a beautiful late afternoon. The air was crisp, and there were folks standing on the breakwater a ways off with signs of goodbye or shouts of some sort. I couldn’t really hear what they were yelling, but it was neat that they cared if we were going anywhere. Private Holt was happy as a clam just leaning up on the railing watchin’ the world go by.

More and more guys had come up on deck so they were beginning to back up two or three deep behind me. The ship wasn’t going very fast, but it was swaying slowly from side to side. Very peaceful I thought.

As I was standing there listening to the folks shout from the rocks of the harbor somebody came up behind me and just threw me back. Knocked me right into some other guys behind me. I damn near fell down. What the hell??!! Who the hell did this shithead think he was?! I took a step forward and saw the chevrons of a Gunny on his collar. This gave me pause as you might expect. Still, I was pissed. I was standin’ there in this angry dilemma when I realized this Gunny was lookin’ at somethin’ over the side of the ship. What the hell is down there, I thought? Must be important, I thought, or he wouldn’t have yanked me around like he did. And he kept lookin’. And kept lookin’. I finally edged around a guy or two to try to see what the Gunny was lookin’ at. Golly was Private Holt surprised. The Gunny wasn’t lookin’ at anything at all! He was bent over the railing pukin’ his guts out! Here he was in his nice starched utilities with his cover in his hand lookin’ all blue around the gills. Eyeballs about twice their normal size.

My little brain was tryin’ to figure out what the Gunny had eaten that would make him this sick when I heard a word from the crowd behind me. “Seasick”. Ahhhh, Private Holt thought. That’s it. He’s seasick! Another new experience for me. I’d seen my first seasick person. I’d heard about seasick folks before, but I’d never seen one up close. So that’s what seasick looked like.

I turned to the fella next to me to point out this new phenomenon when he himself buckled over and started blowing chunks over the side. Whoa, I said to myself. Two guys seasick. This was too cool! Considering the somewhat disgusting spot I found myself in I back off the railing a bit. Only then did Private Holt come to the startling conclusion that nearly everyone on deck was barfin’ all to hell. “Geez! This is disgusting, Private Holt thought. We aren’t even out of the harbor yet. How could these guys be seasick? I’m goin’ below.”

As I stepped through the hatch I put my foot down on a slippery fistful of puke. The head, which was directly in front of me, was packed with guys who were making the most disgusting noises. There were guys lined up to get into the head and they were pukin’ in almost perfect rhythm. I only glanced at’em, but in that second or so one guy lost it and the other guys followed suit one after another. The whole short passageway was awash in barf in less than five seconds. “Yuck! Get me outa here. This is disgusting.” There was puke on the ladder going down. There were two or three splats of puke on the deck as I made my way to my rack. I climbed in my rack and just shuddered. “These poor sorry son’s o bitches”, I thought.

It got worse. All through the night as the ship got to speed it swayed all the more. More and more guys were succumbing. The smells in the troop compartment can only be imagined. The sounds, the wretching, the moans, the splat of puke on the decks from the upper racks. This was truly disgusting. I put my utility cover over my face to hopefully dull the odors, and with the gentle swaying of the ship, went to sleep.

Corporal Luzietti woke me up. He needed a working party. He’d been told to muster some guys to clean the head, but when he stalked the aisles he found that nearly everyone was sick as a dog. He was lookin’ for somebody who wasn’t seasick, and considerin’ that I was snorin’ away, and that I had a somewhat normal color to my face, he determined that I was as healthy as anybody so I was volunteered to clean the head. I don’t think Luzietti had gotten seasick himself, but he was lookin’a bit off his feed.

I tiptoed through the messes on the deck and went up the ladder to the head. I was surprised to see that it was dawn. At the top of the ladder, in the small passageway, there were four or five other unlucky souls who’d been volunteered to be part of this working party. They’d all seen the condition of the head and they were standing in the passageway trying to decide their best course of action. From the sounds of their suggestions I reckoned it wasn’t out the question to just jump overboard and start swimmin’ back towards Long Beach.

The commodes, as it turned out, had all overflowed. They were clogged, as were the sinks. The head was a mess. Private Holt got curious. I trusted that the head was in bad shape, but just how bad was it?

I sidled by the guys and got a breath of wonderful fresh air from the hatchway to the deck. It was a glorious day outside. Sunny. Brisk. The delightful swaying of the ship with the horizon teetering as I looked aft.

I turned back towards the head. The door was closed. I turned the knob and stepped over the lip of the doorway and put one foot in, but the second I did I regretted it. The deck was awash in puke. Three, maybe four, inches deep. The smell was horrendous! With the swaying of the ship the puke was sliding back and forth. Lapping at the bulkheads. Lucky me. With my one foot in, the ship rolled, and this wave of puke slid towards the hatch. I recoiled but not quick enough. The barf sloshed up against the lip of the doorway below me and splashed all the way up to my crotch. “Aaaaaaah, shit!!” I stumbled back out into the passageway. “That’s f…in’ disgustin’!” Truer words were never spoken.

Ever since that moment, as I continue on through life, I know, no matter how ugly something is or how disagreeable, what disgusting really is. Whenever anyone says “That’s disgusting”, I silently say to myself “Naw. That ain’t disgusting. Let me tell you what disgusting really is.” But I never do. They just wouldn’t understand. Just like beauty, I reckon that disgusting stuff is in the eye of the beholder.

Author/PH

I've never been as stunned. Speechless. Any reaction to his comment would have been wrong. Those few of us within earshot sure remember the moment. Especially Doc. How could anyone be so stupid?

For us Operation Hastings was over. Thank God. We all know how bad it was. Worse for some, but exhausting for us all. The recent weeks had changed us. We were legitimately war weary. Exhausted, filthy, bedraggled, and to a certain extent, shell shocked.

We were in helos on our way back to one of our ships, the USS Princeton. The blessed coolness of the altitude, the green countryside slowly gliding away below us, we were eager for sanctuary. My only thought was, "I'm so happy to be outa that damned place!" We had gotten out alive.

The sight of the Princeton on the blue, blue sea was alone enough to bring a smile to our faces. The approach, the landing, then reality snapped us out of it. The racket of the engines. Some sailor yelling at us to get out and follow the yellow lines on the flight deck. Everything seemed louder. I could barely hear him with all the noise, but we understood. We all got out, milled around for a few seconds, then proceeded on our way.

What a dramatic difference. Only a few minutes before we were surrounded by gloom. Dampness. Mud. Even the sky had been overcast. Yet here we were in the bright sun. Glaring. The turbulence of the rotor blades and the noise create a strangely hostile environment and made me hunch over as I walked. We all stooped as we shuffled along the yellow lines, concentrating on the back of the guy in front of us.

Doc was in front of me. Filthy, sun bleached utilities, Unit One on his side. He carried an AK 47. He was hugging it to his chest as he walked.

None of the Corpsmen carried pistols anymore. They'd learned early on that they felt better with something more formidable. Even on Deckhouse I they'd drawn shotguns from the ships armory, but on Hastings this Doc had somehow commandeered an AK from somewhere. It aint like we hadn't seen a bunch of em in the last few weeks. Even Lt. Williams had come up with one.

So here we were walking single file, following the yellow lines with all this wind and racket, when this sailor runs up to Doc. He shouts above the noise,

"Hey man, I'll give you a hundred dollars for your gun!"

Not giving this guy any more than a glance, Doc says,

"Leave me alone!"

The sailor got right in Docs' face and shouted,

"A hundred and fifty!"

Doc stopped for a second, looked up and yelled,

"Get the fu.. away from me!"

The sailor took a step back, got an indignant, almost hostile, look on his face, and said,

"Hey man. You can go back there anytime you want and get another one, but I'm stuck out here!"

Doc stopped. I stopped. The guy behind me stopped. Even the two guys in front of Doc stopped. We stood there for a second or two and just stared at this sorry asshole. I'd heard what he said, but I my brain couldn't believe it. Doc and I looked at each other, and I knew what he was thinking. Could this squid be this stupid? An instant later we started to walk away. We had to keep the column moving.

When we got below, preparing to board boats to the Pickaway, the few of us that had heard the sailor commented on the situation. What should we have done? What could we have said? In the end, the stupidity of the sailor just made us grin. I know I learned a lesson that day. A lesson I've referred to more than once in my life since.

There are folks in this world that are just too damn stupid to deal with.

Author/PH

When Rod finally told me what was bothering him I was jealous. As the years roll by I’ve found myself thinking about his experience. Not often, but occasionally. Primarily when someone mentions heaven.

Rod and I were on mess deck duty together aboard the USS Pickaway (APA 220). We’d never met until the day we both reported for duty. When there are only a half a dozen guys doing such a boring job you become familiar. Especially when our work day started at four or five in the morning, well before the troops were rousted out. Those of us on mess deck duty had a completely different schedule than the rest of the troops. Familiarity led to friendship. Rod was one helluva nice guy. Squared away. Pretty happy with himself.

Our outfit had already done one amphibious landing. We’d had a few casualties. It was rugged, but we came back to the Pickaway with a feeling of experience. We were veterans. We’d been blooded. We sailed back to the Philippines for some much appreciated liberty.

Subic Bay was undoubtedly the most outrageous, alluring port on the globe in July of ‘66. Lust. Liquor. What every nineteen year old Marine dreamt of. Rod had managed to get a two day pass to Manila. A few guys did. I wondered why, really, because the party was in Subic, and I really believe it didn’t get any better than that.

I noticed the difference in him the first morning after he got back. Under normal circumstances we were normally either griping or horsing around, but he was quiet. Subdued. Very unusual for a Marine, believe me. After afternoon chow, after we’d swabbed the area down, we had some time to sit down with a cup of coffee. When I walked over to his table he was lost in a daydream. He’d been this way all day.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’.”

That’s the only answer I could get outta him. It was mostly curiosity, but it was beginning to get on my nerves.

Our unit got orders to get all our guys back to the ship and pull out of port immediately. At dawn the next morning we were again at sea on our way to Vietnam. Our mess deck duties went as usual, but Rod continued to be preoccupied. That first morning out of Subic, right after morning chow, I approached him while he was sitting at a mess table staring off into space.

“This is stupid. You gotta snap out of it.

"What’s your problem, anyway?” He didn’t look at me.

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” My curiosity was killing me by this time. I just couldn’t let this pass.

“I never believe any of your bullshit anyway. What makes you think I’d believe anything you said now?”

In his daze he uttered, “That Manila liberty was a real kick in the ass.”

“OK. OK. So what happened in Manila? Spit it out. You’re makin’ me nuts!”

“Sit down. I’m gonna tell you this, and I know you won’t believe me, but it’s got me all fu…. up.”
So I sat down across from him and he started to talk. He was looking at me, but you could tell his brain housing was someplace else entirely.

“Smith and I got to Manila about four and went to this bar. A nice place. A civilian place. Better’n anyplace in Olongapo. He and I were sittin’ there sippin’ beers when these two gorgeous blonde girls come in.”

“That’s it. You’re right. I don’t believe it. You’re so full of shit!

He snapped out of his little trance.

“Shut the fu.. up. I’m tellin’ you what happened. I told ya you wouldn’t believe me.”

I shut up and motioned for him to carry on with his stupid ass story.

He smiled a little smile.

“They were really fine. They sat at a table for just a minute, then they got up and just walked up to Smith and me and asked us if they could buy us a drink.”

There was no way I was buying this, but the story looked like it was going to be too good to interrupt so I continued to keep my mouth shut.

“We didn’t know what to do so we said, ‘Sure. Have a seat.’ I mean, what could we say? We sure weren’t gonna say no. As it turns out these girls were Swedish airline stewardesses. No shit. From Sweden. They spoke real good English, but you could hear the accent. I almost shit when they sat down, but after we talked for a while, and after a couple more beers, they were great. We got the juke box going. We danced. I was having the time of my life. The one I sorta teamed up with kept touching me. You know. Arm around my shoulder. Her hand on mine. That sort of thing. I was hornier than a three peckered goat, but I couldn’t just come out and say,’D’ya wanna fu..?’ They were paying for all the drinks and everything. Smith and I kept eyeballing each other like, ‘What the fu.. is goin’ on? This is too good to be happening to me.’ Then they decided we had to go someplace to eat. We went to a real nice place. Good chow. And wine. We had glasses of wine.”

Rod sort of drifted off into his little dream world for a few seconds, then softly said ,

“It was fu..in’ wonderful.”

I didn’t want him to stop talking now!

“Well? What the fu.. happened then? Go on!”

He regrouped a bit and started again. “When we left the restaurant it was dark. We started walking down the street. She was holding my hand. Just walking. Then she just stopped and asked me if I wanted to go with her to her flat. That’s what she called it. A flat. It was her apartment, but she called it a flat. Smith’s girl had already asked him. The apartment belonged to’em both.. When they had flights to the Philippines they kept an apartment because it was too hard to get a hotel room after every flight. They normally had two to three day layovers in Manila so they got this apartment. It was huge. Two upstairs bedrooms that were thirty by thirty at least. Really beautiful. You could tell girls lived there. Everything was all clean and white. She had this big bed with one of those lace canopies over it. She said it was to keep the mosquitos off. Smith went off to his girl’s room. I couldn’t believe it was happening.’

I had to say something now. This was just too much.

“You shithead. You’re so full of shit.”

He smiled again and started talking real slow.

“It was great. All night. She told me we had all the time in the world. Didn’t need to hurry. She was somethin’. Three times? Four? I dunno. All night.”

He started to drift again.

Just looking at him you knew he was telling the truth. Really pissed me off. I was disgusted. Jealous. I started to get up to leave when he said,

“But that’s not it. That’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

I looked down at him and said,

“Y’know, who gives a shit what you’ve got to say? I don’t believe any of it anyway.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. I told you you wouldn’t.”

He looked serious.

I sat down again and said, “OK. So what, exactly, did you want to tell me?”

“It’s when I woke up. I’d slept a long time. I was so warm and perfect. A breeze was blowing in my face. After a while I opened my eyes. I looked up at an angel. I forgot where I was. When I opened my eyes all I could see was this beautiful smiling face looking right at me with this beautiful blonde hair falling down into my face. She was blowing in my face to wake me up. Real soft. Honest to God, Holt, I thought I was dead. I thought I was dead and in heaven. For a second or two I really thought it. I was dead and she was an angel. It was so peaceful. Then it scared the shit outa me. I didn’t wanna be dead. I sat up so quick I damn near knocked her on the floor.”

“You’ve got no sympathy from me asshole. You had an all nighter with a Swedish stewardess, and you’re bitchin’ because she woke you up?! Fu.. you! If I were you I wouldn’t tell anybody. They’ll think you’re lyin’, but worse, they might think you’re nuts.”


Later that day he looked at me and laughed. I never told anybody else about it.

We landed just south of the DMZ a day later. Rod was killed in the streambed a week or so after that. When I heard Rod’s name I was stunned. When we finally set in that night on that nasty hill all I could think about was his story. I’ve thought about his story for nearly thirty nine years.

I imagine, I pray, that he woke up with an angel blowing in his face.

Author/PH

My Shot Card Was Up To Date

In 1967 our Marine Corps had no social grace. No etiquette. No political correctness at all. Everything was simpler that way. There was never any question as to how a fella felt about something. If a guy said anything that another guy might not agree with, nobody ever said, "I beg to differ with you." or "I disagree". It was more like, "You're fulla shit!" or even better "You're so fulla shit you can float!" It wasn't uncommon to hear the simplest, "You're a lyin' sack o' shit!" This particular response tended to be perceived as more hostile in nature, but nonetheless the atmosphere was uncluttered with doubts about the speaker's feelings on the matter. Rebuttal arguments tended to be equally as brief. It was generally understood that there was no need for further explanations.

I'm only mentioning this to remind you how barbaric we all were back then. None of us put up with any shit at all. Were we ever insulted? Yup. Did we ever feel the need to retaliate for our embarrassments? Occasionally, but rarely. We just got on with our lives, immediately ignoring most of those outrageous verbal confrontations, particularly if we were wrong.especially if we were wrong. It's just the way we were. It's difficult to imagine how simple minded and thick skinned we were, especially in these days where lawyers are the most common defenders of our sorry, fragile egos.

This is a small story. It revolves around one tiny event in my life. We, the guys who rotated home from Vietnam, can understand this eventual situation, the ultimate confrontation, and the lack of retaliation on my part, but few civilians (anybody who isn't one of us) understand at all. You judge. This story may take a while, but I'll get there in the end. It all leads up to one moment, one comment, one perfect example of our common understanding,

April of '67. I'm going home. My tour of duty is over. The evening before Bill Shaffer and I were to rotate home we turned in our gear, rifles and all. (Those newfangled M-16's) He and I were both uneasy seeing as how this was the first time we'd been unarmed in quite a while. We sat in a squad tent all night, regularly nipping at a bottle of Silver Fox whiskey, listening to the only record he had on a battery powered record player. "Wild Thing". This was to me, even after all these years of rememberin', a magic, almost surreal night. I reckon the Silver Fox had something to do with that, but you gotta remember how excited we all were to be going home.

Dawn. Bill and I bang on the door of the CP shack. The Company clerk is none to excited about us wakin' him up this early, but we want our orders. We're goin' home! He gives us our manila envelopes. On the outside was paper clipped a card, a card that stated we'd served proudly with the First Battalion, Fifth Marines in Vietnam, signed by the battalion CO, Lt. Col Hilgartner. (I've still got that card around the house somewhere.) As Bill and I clomped down the dusty road off the hill to Highway 1 we were smilin' all the way. Neither one of us had much we were taking with us. My meager possessions consisted of a photo album one of the locals had given me, a bone sculpture of a pagoda (considering it only cost me a couple of bucks I knew it wasn't bone, but it was neat anyway.), and my only other jungle utility jacket, all in an old WP bag I'd scrounged from somewhere. I'd given all my other accumulated stuff away to the guys the day before. I wouldn't need it where I was goin'.

We hopped on the first vehicle to come by, a diesel tanker truck. We dangled off the back of that damn dusty truck till we got to Chu Lai, only a few miles. We somehow managed to get to Air Freight, signed up for a flight to Da Nang, and only a few minutes later a C-130 came swoopin' down, landed, then did a quick 180 just a hundred yards or so from the shack. The ramp came down, guys got off, and a bunch of us jumped on. I don't think the plane actually stopped rollin' for more than a minute. Guys were still walkin' toward the ramp when it started to roll away again. A minute later we were airborne.

Fifteen minutes later(?) we landed in Da Nang. Somehow we'd heard what we were supposed to do, where we were supposed to go. Transient Barracks. Part of the procedure was to sign in at Transient Barracks, a maze of hardback shacks near the airbase, and theoretically wait your turn, first come, first served, to catch a flight to Okinawa. In reality there weren't many guys who actually stayed there for the night because flights were leaving all the time. We signed in, they issued us a blanket each, and they assigned us to a hut. I eventually found my assigned hut. I stepped up the step or two, opened the screen door, saw that it was vacant, walked in and sat down on a cot. Bill had wandered off somewhere. I hadn't been sittin' there a minute when I heard the screen door open, and behind me, a familiar voice shoutin' my name. It was Gurbal, one of my best friends from India Company, my original outfit. There has never, ever been a better reunion than at that moment. It had never occurred to me that I would ever see any of my original India guys again. When I'd gotten transferred to Charlie Company, 1/5, I'd felt like an orphan. I never dreamed I'd see these guys again.

Bill, who had also originally been a 3/5 guy, had run into one of his old friends who was with Gurbal, and when my name had come up in the conversation Gurb immediately started a hunt for me. We were all standing there in this hot hut, yellin' and laughin', acting like a bunch of fools. Gurb told me some of the other India guys were around somewhere so we went lookin' for'em. Only then did it occur to me that since we'd shipped out from the States together, it was only natural that we'd be rotating back at the same time. Duh!

We immediately ran into Messmore, then Ussery at the showers. We kept bumpin' into India guys till we had a gang of about eight of us. Golly it was great. As it got towards 1300 we all meandered over to the muster area. When we arrived there must have been a couple of hundred guys waiting for whatever was gonna happen next.

Our only required task, once we got to the Transient Barracks, was to attend this muster to have our seabags checked before we could sign up for a flight. The muster took place in a huge outdoor, thatched roofed, structure. On one end was a wooden stage, and behind it, hung from the roof beam, was a massive plywood, hand painted, sign with a list of all the items considered contraband.

These were things that we weren't allowed to bring home. Most of it made sense. No firearms, ammo, explosives, stuff like that. There were a few things I hadn't reckoned on. One item on the list that surprised me was "pictures of dead people". It hadn't occurred to me before, but I guess it would be in bad taste at home to break out snapshots of disemboweled gooks. At least somebody was thinkin'. Another taboo item on the list was "bone sculptures". Damn.

Attached to the display board was a dazzling array of stuff that had been culled from seabag inspections of the recent past. All sorts of rifles, grenades, and even a claymore. (Who'd need a claymore in San Jose?)

At exactly 1300 some Sergeant walked to the center of the stage and started talkin'. Considering he was educating us on the proper procedures for us to go home we were the most attentive audience on earth. His speech was short and sweet. He told us there'd be multiple seabag inspections at the various stops on our way home. First here, then Okinawa where we'd get squared away for the final trip home, and finally in the States. He said that if we were caught with any of the contraband items in our possession we'd be forbidden to go home. We'd be bumped from our assigned flight and delayed by any disciplinary procedure deemed necessary.

He then pointed to a large circle on the dirt floor to the rear of the building. It was outlined in chalk, about twenty feet across. He told us that we could throw any contraband items in that circle and no questions would be asked, but from this point on we'd be held responsible for any forbidden items found in our possession. He finally told us that after our seabags had been inspected by his men, we could sign up for a flight to Okinawa. As he dismissed us there was only a second or two of silence, then everybody started to move at once.

I walked over to the circle and threw my sculpture in a rapidly expanding pile of stuff. I was almost sure it wasn't made of bone, but I wasn't gonna take the chance. A fella on the opposite side of the circle reached down deep inside his seabag and pulled out an old rusty grease gun! Where in the hell did he come up with that? A moment later some guy stepped past me and threw his whole seabag in the circle. God knows what he had in there, but I guess he was thinkin' along the same lines as I was. In those first few minutes that circle got piled with an astonishing assortment of neat stuff. I've always thought it funny that anybody would even imagine that they could casually go home with a weapon of any kind, and here were guys throwing in all sorts of firearms. Some I'm sure were mementos, being rusty and dirty, but there were more than a few that were obviously serviceable, not to mention all the grenades, blocks of C-4, and every imaginable combination of ammo belts and bandoliers. By the time the frenzy was over the pile was about three feet high and completely filled the circle, my innocent bone sculpture lying at the bottom.

I stood in a line and gave'em a copy of my orders. We India guys relocated each other and went to chow. I can't remember why, but we went to chow at some distant chow hall rather than the one at the Transient Barracks. We jumped on a cattle car and one of us seemed to know where we were going. The cattle car transportation system was pretty darn efficient as I remember it. There'd be a route around the base, and guys could hop on or jump off wherever or whenever they wanted to.

After we ate we went back to the Barracks to see if we had been signed up for a flight. We found that we had all been signed up for a flight to Okinawa that was supposed to take off at midnight. ("The Midnight Flight From Da Nang." Doesn't that sound like it should be a movie or somethin'?) Damn, were we excited!

Once we'd turned our blankets back in one of the guys proposed that we go get a beer, and of course, we all thought that was a helluva idea. We had to do somethin' to kill the time till our flight, and sittin' in a slop shute was as good a way as any. Shortly thereafter we walked into a standard Enlisted Men's slop shute. Board bar to the left and a bunch of picnic tables and benches spread out to our right. It was only four or five in the afternoon at this point so the place wasn't full, but it got that way real quick. Hotter than hell in there it was, but that only made the beer seem better. (I hadn't had a cold beer in months! Sometimes even today, when I break out a cold bottle of beer, I imagine the taste of that first beer that afternoon in Da Nang. Ahhhh.) After three or four beers one of our old Corpsmen from India Company walked through the door. Another great reunion. It was really good to see him. Over the course of our tour all of our Corpsmen had been wounded at one time or another so the sight of him was all the more delightful. He plopped down on the bench between us and proceeded to catch up with our beer consumption. We payed.

At sometime in the conversation the subject of our shot cards came up. The Doc told us that one of the things we'd have to have done when we got to Okinawa was have our shot cards checked and our shots brought up to date. I don't think any of us were necessarily concerned with the thought of getting shots. Shots were a regular occurrence in the Marine Corps, but we were concerned that getting our shots might somehow delay us in getting a flight to the States. It didn't take long before somebody came up with the bright idea for the Doc to just fill in our shot cards. I mean, we were buds, right? It was no skin off his nose if he falsified our shot cards.

Surprisingly enough, after about six or ten beers, Doc agreed to this logic. Those few of us presented Doc with our shot cards, and he proceeded to get downright artistic in his efforts to make our cards appear authentic and up to date. We managed to produce two or three different pens with different inks so Doc could log our shots in a seemingly random manner. A plague shot here, a flu shot there, and before you knew it we were the proud owners of up to date shot cards compliments of the United States Navy. We used spit and beer to smudge'em up some, hoping to make them look as realistic as if they'd been in our wallets for months. How cool was that? We were genius's! (Beer makes everybody a genius.)

As eleven o'clock rolled around (sorry, 2300) we all started to get a bit goofy. I think it finally was dawning on us that we were actually going home. We boarded the plane. It was a commercial airliner. Amid all the grabass and horsin' around we all eventually got seated. When the engines started we all got quiet. My eye caught Messmore's and we both started lookin' at each other with these stupid grins on our faces. When the plane finally lifted off we all cheered. I mean cheered! We were leaving that nasty, dusty, hot, muddy, insect infested, slimy, rainy, humid, dangerous place. We were on our way to the "world".

I don't remember how many hours it took to get to Okinawa, but I doubt if my hands eased their death grip of the seat arms the entire time. (Why, oh why, was this making me nervous?) When we landed we were excited, but really tired. Not just me, but everybody looked downright whipped.

We got off the plane, on to a bus, and we ended up at Camp Hansen in the middle of the night. We all sorta stood around in a group, some of us smokin', when some NCO approached us and told us to fall in. He was wearin' starched utilities, which for some reason just tickled the hell outta me. When he barked at us that the smoking lamp had not been lit there was a group protest, not that he wasn't correct in saying so, but because we hadn't even heard the term "smoking lamp" in quite some time. The guys put their smokes out; we straightened up at attention, did a right face and marched to the gym, which had been set up with wall to wall folding chairs. We were about to be introduced to Gunnery Sergeant Brown. ("The" Gunnery Sergeant Brown) As we entered the gym he was standing on the stage. Once we eventually seated ourselves he began to speak.

It was Sergeant Brown's job to school us the proper procedures and protocol for getting us on a flight to the good ole US of A. He spoke louder and more clearly than any instructor I've seen since, yet it must be remembered we were the most attentive audience a speaker could hope for. He made it simple. He told us we needed to pick up our stowed seabags (I'd completely forgotten I'd left a seabag in storage on Okinawa so many months before), then get a paper certifying that we had all our uniforms, then have our shot cards inspected and get any shots we might need, then stand a personnel inspection which would require a standard military haircut. Once these items had been completed we would be allowed to sign up for a flight home. He told us we had to stand the personnel inspection last, but the other items could be completed in any order. We could take as long as we wanted in achieving these tasks, a day or a month, but he knew that we knew he was jokin'. We wanted to go home!

Considering it wasn't dawn, and the various offices wouldn't open till seven, we were all directed to an empty squad bay to get some sleep. I made sure the duty NCO would wake me up at about six thirty, then laid down on an empty, unmade rack, and conked out in about ten seconds. I wasn't the only one who wanted to get an early start on my tasks. At six thirty some PFC came in and woke up the whole herd of us, but he really didn't make much of an effort. If we wanted to get up, we would. If not, we could sleep till noon as far as he was concerned. I woke up immediately. (A habit I fully intended to break once I got home.)

The whole bunch of us wandered over to the mess hall and downed the first real breakfast we'd had in months. I walked over to the milk machine and downed about a half gallon, one glass after another. Some eggs, some bacon, and I was charged and ready to go. I was bright eyed and bushy tailed as I went lookin' for the place to get my shot card validated. Considering that Doc had done everything that needed doing, I was pretty sure it would only take me a minute or two to accomplish this.

There were signs everywhere. Big signs. The object being to eliminate confusion as to where we had to go and when they were open for business. I followed the signs to the appropriate building and stood in the appropriate line, which got longer by the minute. At seven o'clock exactly, the door opened and a Corporal stuck his head out and told the first thirty guys to come in. I trailed along behind the guy in front of me as the line disappeared into a large room. We were directed to stand along the walls, facing inboard, until we formed a circle. Sure enough, thirty guys tended to be the perfect number of guys to form the circle. Obviously they had this down to an art by this time, processing how many hundreds of guys a day. More like thousands really.

There was another, smaller, part of the room that stretched out to the right of our circle. This section of the room contained a couple of long tables, one on either side forming a path towards an exit door. These tables were jam packed with all sorts of syringes and air gun types of arrangements for shots of every conceivable type.

The Corporal strode to the center of our room and inquired,

"Who doesn't think they need any shots? Who's got shot cards that they know for sure are up to date? Raise your hands."

I know I had a small smirk on my face, as did the two other guys in the room who shot their hands in the air. This was gonna be a piece of cake.

The Corporal walked over to one of the tables and picked up an empty coffee can.

"Everybody who knows for sure they have a complete shot card.put it in the can."

He strolled around the room as those few of us dropped our shot cards in his coffee can. Never did it occur to me how odd it was to use a coffee can. As usual I didn't have a clue. His next actions took no more than thirty seconds.

He put the coffee can down on the end of the table, reached into his back pocket, pulled out a yellow can of Ronson lighter fluid, and proceeded to squirt a ten second squirt into the can containing my shot card! He produced a book of matches from his pocket and, with a flourish, dropped a lighted match in the can. The three of us had our mouths open, but before we could get a complaint out of our mouths he loudly announced,

"All you lyin' mother f...s fall in over here," as he stood at one end of the shot table gauntlet.

More than one thought went through my brain in that instant, the first being. "How dare he call me a liar! Who did he think he was?! Somebody should deck his sorry ass!" Simultaneously I admitted to myself, "Shit! He knows." With all this calamity goin' on in my head there was not a peep comin' out of my mouth. The majority of the guys in the room were hootin' and hollerin', some laughin' out loud. I, along with the other two guys, defiantly and with much indignation, walked over to the shot tables and prepared for the worst.

There was an irony to this situation. As I was getting my shots, some with a needle, some with the air gun, the other guys in the room were turning in their shot cards to be inspected. At the far end of the shot tables there sat a Corpsman who issued me a new shot card. I think the four or five shots I received didn't take more than two minutes from the moment I approached the table til I walked through the door with my new shot card in hand. Meanwhile the other innocents remained in that room going through a relatively lengthy process of having their shot cards evaluated. I folded up my card, did thirty or so pushups to get my blood movin' through my perforated arms, then proceeded on my next mission to get my uniform issue up to snuff. Not a feather was ruffled.

As I sit here writing this tale I wonder how many men today would put up with being called a liar, particularly if they are? Very few I'm sure. Our fragile egos would rather whine, or perhaps retaliate, than understand the value of men being true to other men. Does anyone appreciate how easy it was back then to be totally honest with one another because we were men who understood the brutal boundary between right and wrong?

The Marine Corps of 1967 was brutal, but it was honest. Because our lives were hard we held little value in social grace. Life was so much easier that way. Most people would not agree. But most people don't have the golden memory of sittin' in a Da Nang slop shute, two thirds shitfaced, thinkin' they're clever by spittin' on their shot cards. I do.

Go on, call me a liar. See if I care.

Author/PH

Rod and I worked on the mess decks together. Rotten duty. Horrible hours. Reveille at 0500. Taps whenever. The cooks needed us available at a moments notice so they didn't want us to rack in the troop compartment with our outfit. We were given this little cubbyhole with six or eight racks. Really cramped quarters. More so than the troop compartments.

The U.S.S. Pickaway pulled into Subic Bay. The second time in a month. We'd spent the last couple of weeks in Vietnam. Near Quang Nai. The month before, our first liberty in Olongapo had been a revelation, but this time we were veterans. I even had some money this time. That $65 combat pay made me feel rich. I crossed the bridge with a sense of daring I'd not had the first trip. I was determined to have a good time.

Once in town I got my MPC converted to Pesos at the first booth I came to. I hadn't gone twenty feet down the main drag when I saw something in a shop window that I just had to have. A bugle! What was I thinking? I had an absolutely clear vision of myself being the life of the Olongapo party by traveling from bar to bar with this bugle, blowing Reveille to my hearts content. I was totally oblivious to the possibility of making a fool out of myself. If there's a town on earth where a fella can be a horses ass and get away with it, it's gotta be Olongapo.

I walked on in, pointed to the bugle in the window, and in less than a minute I was the proud owner of this shiny new bugle. Ten bucks maybe. Who remembers? I'd learned how to blow a bugle when I was a kid (like two years before), but I'd never had an opportunity to show off with it. Looking back at that moment all I remember is being so damn proud. Simple things for simple minds I reckon.

So off I went down the street. I walked straight to Paulines. I'd been there the month before, and I remember it was the biggest joint in town so I'd have a good sized audience for sure. As I walked in there were dozens of tables in front of me, and the long bar immediately to the right. As the friendly young ladies were asking me if I'd like to sit at a table with them I just scooted over to the bar and plopped down on a stool. I stood my bugle up on the bar and ordered a drink. The bartender walked up to take my order, but the first words out of his mouth were,

"You gonna play that?"

I said, "I'm thinkin' about it."

"You play it. I'll give you a free drink."

I couldn't believe my luck. This is exactly how I'd imagined it! This is it! As I picked up my bugle, only then did it cross my mind that this was a goofy thing to do, but this is what I'd imagined. I couldn't stop now. I took a deep breath and let go with one fine rendition of Reveille if I do say so myself. As the first notes blasted across the room I got an immediate and startling reaction. Everybody jumped about a foot. Glasses were spilled, and bottles fell over, but nobody was mad, just surprised. A few seconds later everybody in the room was smiling. Mostly Marines. Some sailors. Grinning. When I'd completed my last note I got a pretty good round of applause, and from then on I didn't have to buy one drink. It seemed to me that about half the folks in the room offered to buy me a drink. I had two or three lined up on the bar in front of me pretty much the whole time. Every twenty minutes or so somebody would ask me to play it again, and I would. More drinks. My nineteen-year-old liver was gettin' a workout. I even did a Chow Call once just to prove to some guy that I knew it. Later I tried to do a Taps, but when your lips are numb it's downright difficult to do it without a lot of squeeking and such. Three or four Reveilles into the afternoon and I was totally shitfaced. I still had drinks on the bar, but I figured I'd had too much as it was. I didn't feel comfortable when I was gettin' numb. Insecure really. I told the group around me that I was going to make a head call then I just left.

I didn't have to be back across the bridge till 2300, but it was only late afternoon. I made the semiconscious decision to go back to the ship. In the heat of the afternoon the drinks were really messing me up. I don't remember how I got to the ship. I do remember vaguely going to my little mess deck cubbyhole and lying down. Nobody else was there. I just conked out.

The mess cook woke me up. I'd been dozing off and on for I don't know how long. Five in the morning maybe? He needed somebody to swab down the mess deck area before morning chow, and I looked to be in better shape than any of the other guys in this little group. He was right. I felt great. I hadn't had that much sleep in months. I decided to roust Rod too. What the hell. I wasn't going to do all the work. He was on the lower rack directly across from me. I nudged him with my foot. No response. I kicked him, but just a little. He groaned and moved a bit, but I realized that he was still half drunk from the night before. Then I had the most brilliant idea that Private Holt had ever come up with.

I reached behind myself and plucked my trusty bugle from my hanging helmet on the side of the rack. I bent down, put the bugle about a foot from Rod's head, then started to blast away with another perfect rendition of Reveille. A lot happened in those few seconds, the most dramatic of which was Rod jerking awake, opening his eyes somewhat, and in one spastic motion, punching my bugle halfway down my throat. My lip lost a bit as the mouthpiece skidded by. My teeth shattered. Everybody yelled at once, and I mean everybody. The three or four other sleepers in the room yelled. Rod yelled, but most of all, I yelled. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! Or to be truthful, MMMMMPPPPPHHHHHH!

I spit out what felt like a dozen teeth. Blood splattering as I yelled. I was horrified. My pretty little face with my pretty little teeth were maimed forever! I was angry. Real angry. At who? Rod? He was drunk, it wasn't his fault. In those few seconds it was clear to me that this was the dumbest damn thing I'd ever done, and I'd done some dumb stuff, just ask anybody. I ran out of the compartment, up the nearest ladder, onto the deck, and threw the bugle as far as I could into the waters of Subic Bay.

I had to suffer till 0800 when the ships dentist could give me a minute of his time. Until then I hadn't opened my mouth. I was afraid the cooler air across my busted teeth would be painful. That and the fact that it felt horrible. I didn't relish the thought of actually surveying the damage. As I sat in the dentist chair I was prepared for the worst, but as it turned out there wasn't nearly as much damage as I'd imagined. I'd chipped three teeth, and broken one of my buckteeth in half. Almost a perfect circle in my smile. My lips were two huge scabs by this time. The dentist got his drilling gear out and buffed off the raggedy edges, but other than that there was nothing he was gonna do.

Rod barely remembered the incident. We lost him a few weeks later. I lived with that hole in my smile for two and a half years till I got'em fixed while I was stationed aboard an aircraft carrier. They had real dentists there! The broken one was replaced completely by a cap. It's changed color over the years so now it's a bit yellower than the others, but every morning when I look in the mirror and check out my feeble smile with what looks like a corn nut on the front I'm reminded of Rod and the time I did the dumbest thing I've ever done.

Author/PH

I can't believe what this reunion did to me. This last weekend I went to my thirtieth high school reunion. I've never felt a need to attend reunions of any kind. It's not like I had to go to this one, but when I got the notice in the mail a couple of months ago, I said why not? Simple enough. Why not? There is a certain curiosity.

For me high school wasn't all that great. For one reason or another we moved a lot. I went to four different high schools. I don't feel an allegiance to any one school, but I did graduate from Sunnyvale High, so I decided to go. Judy had absolutely no interest in going with me. I could hardly blame her. As I was getting dressed for the occasion the phone rang. It was Messmore, a fella I had served with in the Marines in '66.

This tale has very little to do with high school, y'know. Or for the reunion, for that matter. The whole circle of events actually began in the summer of '66. In the summers following high school I got so bored, and my ambition so totally non existent that I joined the Marine Corps. I know. I know. Had I lost my mind? Probably. But here I was in the Marine Corps on my way to Vietnam. My outfit, the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines, had orders to proceed to Vietnam via a swaying old tub, the USS Renville (APA 227).

The Navy really knew how to pack'em in. There were a zillion of us aboard, with our berthing compartments racked six high. Real boredom. We would assemble on the fantail once a day to do our workouts, but other than that...pure boredom. Wake up, stand in the chow line, eat, then get back in the chow line for the next meal. It would take us hours sometimes to actually get to eat. We'd take books to the chow line. We'd take cards to the chow line. Anything to keep us from goin' stir crazy. There'd be a bunch of times we wouldn't even go to chow. It was too much of a hassle. It took us a couple of weeks to cross the Pacific. A good portion of that time standing in the chow line.

One thing, though. We got to know one another. You'd be standing in the chow line, and you'd turn to the next guy and ask, "Where ya from?" The conversations started simple, but they always progressed to other subjects; women, cars, women, sports, women, family, women, and girlfriends.

There was a definite difference between women and girlfriends. You had to be respectful when a fella talked about his girlfriend. If they showed you her picture, even if she was as plain as a mud fence, you had to say something complimentary. I always said something like, "Beautiful eyes!" or "She's too good for you." You never, ever, said anything sexual or off color. This was definitely a death-defying act. You could get your ass kicked before you knew what hit ya.

Most other women, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. Open season. I can't tell you how many times Ann Margaret or Sophia Loren were the objects of our active imaginations. They, among a long list of others, came under the heading of WOMEN. A glimpse of any attractive girl in a magazine would result in an immediate discussion in which everyone would try to out lie the other in various personal sexual techniques. What we lacked in experience we made up for in imagination. It was entertainment, nothing more. We were in this perverse environment without women. We were obsessed. You can imagine. Or at least I hope you can imagine. We were one thousand nineteen year olds with out a woman in sight. Obscene really.

We were nineteen. Pure testosterone. Crude. Primitive. We'd been trained to be violent, and violent we were. Violence was as common in the Marine Corps as green. Violence was considered to be an attribute. Disagreements were often dealt with immediately in a physical manner. Many a time I'd seen arguments turn to punches. Occasionally grudges were held, but more often than not the end of fight meant end of discussion.

Kessler and I were standing in the chow line one day. A few of the guys were from my platoon. Most weren't. The fella next to Kess asked him where he was from. Simple enough. Kess was from Chicago, I knew, but when the guy mentioned that he was from California, Kess said that he had lived in Sunnyvale when he was a kid. I was surprised. I'd known Kess for only a month or so, and we'd talked for hours about everything under the sun. This was the first I'd ever heard him mention Sunnyvale, and I casually told him so.

"Bullshit, you're from Chicago. You don't know shit about Sunnyvale. Whatcha talkin' about?"

He didn't bat an eye.

"Shut the f... up. I spent over a year in Sunnyvale...when I was in the sixth grade."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Why didn't you say so before? You gotta know I graduated from Sunnyvale High?"

"You're kiddin'. You went to Sunnyvale? How in the hell was I supposed to know that? You never mentioned it to me."

Somehow, in all our jabbering over the last few weeks, I guess high schools never came up in the conversation. Come to think of it, why would it? High school seemed a thousand years ago.

"OK, so who'd ya know? Run some names by me. See if we knew any of the same kids."

"Shit, it was the sixth grade. I don't remember much. I didn't know many kids. It was one of my foster homes. Only a year." Then he'd mention a name, and I'd say,

"Nope, didn't know him."

He'd mention another.

"Nope, never heard of her."

This went on for six or eight names, then his eyes brightened a bit, and he said,

"Becky Gingrich!"

My heart actually missed a beat. Becky Gingrich! I sure remembered her. The other guys in line had been listening to our conversation. It seemed to be the best one going within earshot so they were as pleased as Kess when they saw that I had recognized her name.

Like a moron I asked,

"Did you know Becky?"

Of course I knew he knew Becky, but my question was, did he really know Becky or was he just dropping her name just to see if he'd get a rise outta me? A few days after I'd gotten to Sunnyvale High I saw her walking in the hall. I actually stopped a guy to ask him what her name was. She was simply a delight to look at. Not just good lookin', but full of life. She wasn't a cheerleader or even hang out with that bunch, but all the guys knew who she was.

"She lived down the street from me," Kess said with a sense of pride. "I'd run home from school ahead of her just so I could be sittin' on my front step when she walked by, and she would say, 'Hi, Bob.' It sounds stupid, but it made my day, let me tell ya."

I understood completely. Becky was beautiful. No. Pretty. Even when I knew her in high school she was just so damn pretty. And nice. Blond, blue eyed, walked with her books in front of her. Cardigan sweater, skirt. And her smile. That was it. It was her smile. It beamed. That squinty sorta all American smile that made you happy just to see her happy. I could just imagine Bob sittin' on his step just waitin' for that smile. So I told him so, and he was happy as could be that he knew somebody who knew Becky. We stood there in this chow line with about twenty guys listening. So one of the guys in line finally bursts out,

"Who da f... is this Becky?"

Bob and I tried to describe her to those interested, but they were in no mood for "good girl" stories. The mood in this narrow passageway was naturally surly. Some of the more barbaric among us were muttering things. Crude things. I had been so preoccupied with my mini fantasy that I hadn't heard the first of the remarks, but Kess did.

"What'd you say?

"Oh, nothin' much. It's just that if she's so fine lookin' she's probably puttin' out for some lucky son of a bitch."

This type of talk seriously interfered with my image of Becky, and it obviously had the same effect on Kess because he straightened right up, took a step forward, and said,

"Watch your mouth, motherf..."

Kess took the words right out of my mouth. I was indignant. This was Becky we were talking about! How dare he even think bad stuff about her. The guy could see he'd pissed Kess off. The other guys snickered some, but nobody else chimed in with any more comments. It was obvious that this wasn't just some woman we were talkin' about. It was Becky, whoever that was.

The guy just wouldn't leave it alone. He had to put in one more stupid remark. Of course, I never heard the whole thing because when he smiled and said,

"Ya know, when I get back to the world, I'm gonna look this Becky up, and I'll just betcha that I can get in her pants in....."

Bam! Down he went. Kess had just stepped up one more step and decked the guy. Whapped'im right in the eye, he did.

Everybody in the passageway lit up. Shouts. Pushing. I'm not much of a fighter, but I was very impressed with Kess at this point, so I stood next to him, waiting to take on all comers. If anybody wanted to badmouth Becky, they'll have to deal with Kess!....and me.

After a few moments of scrambling around that tiny passageway, we all sorta stood our ground. The guy who'd been decked was already on his feet, wanting to do something, but knowing he'd better not. His mouth had gotten way ahead of his ass, and he'd just have to live with it. He had crossed the line. He had insulted Becky. Or at least the image of Becky, whoever that was.

By the time we ate and got back to our berthing compartment, the word was out about Kess and this guy in the chow line. A lot of stories. Most of'em more entertaining than the actual events, but Kess had increased his reputation. Rightly so. To defend a woman's honor on this ship was quite an achievement. When the lights went out for the night, when the guys talked to one another throughout the compartment, the question of the day was, "Who was this Becky?"

That night, in that compartment, with only the red night-light, we all talked about Becky. We laid there for an hour talking about the sun in her hair, her walk, even her grades, as if we knew. By this time all two hundred of the guys in this compartment had heard about Becky. Surprisingly, only once did some guy from across the compartment ask something vulgar about Becky.

"How's her jugs?"

Upon hearing this I just assumed Kess would leap into action again, but before this thought got completely across my brain a dozen other guys had shouted the guy down.

"Shut the f... up!

All of us had our own imaginations. We didn't need this asshole to bruise the image.

These were guys that hadn't heard of Becky until that evening.

Over the next week or so, when talking about women, the guys would describe all sorts of various sexual practices they'd attempt with any number of women, but one particular conversation ended with,

"But not "The Becky".

"The Becky". It stuck. Over the next couple of months of training, whenever her name would come up in increasingly reverent situations, she would be referred to as The Becky. She had become the ideal. The perfect girl. Even the guys with girlfriends would compare them with The Becky. Whoever that was.

I decided we had to get a picture of Becky. My platoon, the second, was even considering writing her a group letter. Imagine having The Becky as a pen pal! I wrote to my high school buddy, Ron, and asked him if he could look her up, get her address. I wrote to my Dad and asked him to send me my senior yearbook. The thought of actually having a picture of The Becky excited everybody. Though the whole compartment knew of The Becky, second platoon had personal interest. Kess and I actually knew her! Yeah, right.

Our training was complete. We boarded the USS Pickaway (APA 220) and sailed towards Vietnam to engage in amphibious assaults wherever we were needed. Few casualties at first. South of Quang Ngai. Then to the DMZ. We were sent to look the place over. To see if the North Vietnamese were coming into the south through the DMZ. This was July of ‘66. We found more than we bargained for. Intense gunfights. Many casualties. Very bad stuff. Well over half of us either killed or wounded. Second Platoon had lost many of its guys. Immediately after this episode they moved us to Chu Lai. No longer based aboard a ship, they gave us an area of responsibility just outside of the airstrip perimeter. We assumed the normal daily duties. Patrols. Ambushes. Perimeter security. This was now our home.

Mail call! This was the first mail we'd received since we got off the ship. I had returned from chow to see a small bunch of guys hovering around my gear. My mail had been left in their capable hands. One piece of mail that was of particular interest was a package. Obviously a book. They knew. It was my yearbook. They weren't goin' anywhere till I opened the package so they could finally see a picture of The Becky. I wasted no time opening it once I realized that Kess was in attendance. I opened it like a holy book to the photos of the senior class. There she was. Becky Gingrich. The typical posed graduation picture.

Kess was the first to say anything.

"That's her, but that's not the way I remember her." He was disappointed. The other guys, there musta been ten, looked over our shoulders, and were properly respectful.

"Beautiful!"

"Gorgeous!"

Even a "Gee."

But I knew what Bob meant. The picture was too stiff. A portrait. For one thing, her hair was in some sort of style that didn't fit her. We remembered her with the soft blond pony tail. It didn't show any of the dazzling prettiness that I knew he remembered.

No problem. She'd been in a bunch of clubs and stuff. I flipped through the pages till I found the one I was looking for. Big picture it was. About an eighth of the page. Class officer of some sort. Perfect. There she was, with the sun in her hair, smiling directly at us with her magic smile. Bob actually gasped. He gently took the book from me and drew it toward his face. For about a half a minute he simply stared at her picture. It looked as if his brain had called it quits, but I knew what was going on in his head. This pretty sixth grader he'd once had a crush on, had grown to be this absolutely lovely woman. His dreams had become much more real now.

Once the other guys saw this picture they could see what we meant. They became downright excited. The Becky was real, and her picture proved that she was everything that all of us had wished.

It occurred to me at that moment that there were missing members of the unofficial Becky Gingrich fan club. Malone, Daniels, Olsen, Cruz, and Fence, even Sgt. Haley. They all had their moments of soothing appreciation of the sweet qualities of The Becky. They were gone now. And others, our badly wounded. The last we'd seen of them was when they were lifted out of the jungle on a helicopter sling. Not to mention all the absent guys, not from Second Platoon, that shared their thoughts in the berthing compartment aboard ship.

We found six or eight pictures of The Becky in that yearbook. A few no bigger than a pea, but I made the decision to cut them all out and give'em away. Who gave a shit about anybody else in the book? Not me. Anyway, Kess got the good one. I never got any. Even the tiny pictures made the new owners feel wealthy. They had a picture of The Becky!

A day or two later we got more mail! I guess it'd been stackin' up someplace while we'd been troupin' around the mountains of the DMZ. I got a letter from Rons' mom from Sunnyvale. Great. We'd finally get an address. Not that any of us, by that time, had nerve enough to correspond with her. She'd long ago become an ideal. We couldn't have anything tarnish that.

We'd all discussed what we thought The Becky would be doing these days. Most of us thought she'd be a student somewhere. A good school. She was smarter than most. Right? Others had visions of her working in an office or even as a waitress at some all American diner. Imagine looking up from a menu and being greeted by her. The smile.

I can't remember exactly what the letter said, but I do remember the opening sentence. "Joe, I hope you're not going to be too disappointed." Uh oh. Our Becky had gotten married right out of high school. She'd had a baby boy. I didn't recognize the name of the guy she married.

Surprisingly to me, I wasn't all that disappointed. Her gettin' married seemed sort of natural really. I was much more concerned about Kess and the other guys. I broke it to'em gently, two or three at a time. They didn't say a word. They simply stood there for a minute and absorbed the news. Even Kess. I thought how strange this was. For them and me. Now she had become more normal.

That night we had bunker watch. Three to a bunker. One guy awake. The other two asleep. No conversation on the perimeter, but we had a lot of time to think.

The following morning we straggled to the chow tent a few at a time. The tent was set up for thirty or forty guys. Picnic tables and benches. SOS and reconstituted spuds. (Mmmm. Mmmm. Good!) These were guys from the whole company, not just second platoon. We had a whole bunch of replacements by then so most of'em didn't even know what this Becky stuff was all about. The Becky had been on my mind most of the night. I was surprised that some of the other guys felt the same. Right out of the blue Gurbal says,

"I bet Becky's the best f...' mother around. Like Donna Reed."

This simple loving comment started an active conversation on what qualities the perfect mother must have. Immediately some guy said,

"She bakes chocolate chip cookies,"and then added.

"Not from one o those silly ass mixes either"

Then another complimentary comment from a guy across the tent,

"F...' A. What a cook!"

For the next few weeks, whenever anybody happened to think of another trait of the perfect Momma, they'd say it. Even the guys that had never known of the Becky. It became a small type of entertainment. Simple, safe, and it made us feel better. The Becky had become Donna Reed, The Beav's mom, and Father Knows Bests' wife all rolled up into one. (I know...Barbara Billingsley and Jane Wyatt. Who could forget?!)

Then I got transferred. A very scary experience for me. To Charlie Company, First Battalion, Fifth Marines. Charlie Company was a good enough outfit, for sure, but I felt like an orphan without my regular guys. I rotated home four months later. Various duty stations. I got out of the Marines in ‘69. Life went on. The Becky faded from my memory. Thirty years have gone by.

Sorry for the sidetrack story, but it all comes together in the end.

My high school reunion was happening over a three day period. The first night, Friday, was a casual get together at the old pizza place, PeeWees'. The second night would be the official banquet, then Sunday we'd have a barbeque at the local park.

Like I said before, I was gettin' ready to go out to the pizza place when the phone rang. Larry Messmore from India Company, Fifth Marines. We'd served together in Vietnam back in ‘66. For the last few months the outfit had been planning to have a reunion in'96...the thirty-year reunion of our major gunfights. Messmore had gotten my phone number from the reunion fella, and he just couldn't wait to call me. It was great hearing his voice. Sounded exactly the same. We talked for over a half hour when I told him I had to cut the conversation short because I was late to my reunion. So he says,

"What, your high school reunion?"

"Yup. I've never been before. It oughta be somethin'."

He paused, then said, "Hey, is this the same school The Becky went to?"

I was flabbergasted. I'd forgotten. Forgive me, no I hadn't. It's just that I'd been thinking of so many things for so many years that The Becky had dimmed. My life is sweet. I've been married to my wonderful wife for over twenty years. My three kids are my life. I've not needed The Becky. She was a long, long time ago. In another world.

"Wow, Mess. Yeah. I hadn't thought about her for a while. I can't believe you still remember her!"

"Oh yeah. How could I forget The Becky?" He laughed. "Are you gonna see her tonight? Tell'er hello from me, will ya?"

It hadn't even occurred to me. I made the reservations months ago. All the contemplating I'd done over this reunion, and I never equated the event with Becky. The memory of her lingered with my second platoon group, not with high school, yet Mess was right. It could happen. I might actually bump into Becky Gingrich tonight.

Nah. Becky wouldn't be there, I was sure. Not our Becky. Our Becky was only in our heads. I mentioned this to Mess, and he actually agreed, but if I did meet her, and if she was as wonderful as we'd dreamed, I had to call him and let him know. We ended our call on that note.

I showed up at PeeWees' an hour early. I'd planned it that way from the start. I got a pitcher of beer and posted myself at the far corner of the place, facing the door. I wasn't sure if I'd know anybody, but I didn't want to miss'em if I did. I was the first one there. A couple of regular customers were sitting at the bar. I must've looked a little strange. About ten minutes later some folks started showing up. They appeared to know each other, but I didn't recognize them. A few minutes later a couple walked in, and the husband had a yearbook in his hand. They looked around, obviously didn't recognize anyone they knew, and were deciding where to sit down when I waved them over in my direction.

I said, "I'm pretty sure we don't know each other, but you've got the yearbook, so sit down and we can compare notes on who we do know".

They were receptive enough to my plan. They walked over and sat down across from me. Quick introductions. Bob and Joanne Rominger. They'd come from Georgia! I got two more glasses and poured them a beer, but none of us actually drank much. Bob was the one that graduated in my class. Joanne was a couple of years younger. They both looked great. It only took a few minutes before I caught on that they both had great senses of humor. We began to look through the yearbook...one picture at a time. I knew some. He knew many more. Any thought of Becky only occurred when we turned the page to the names beginning with G. Our comments up until this moment had concentrated on which persons were in who's class. Or who was infamous for what? Joanne had a limited amount of interest, but she and I had a ball making fun of the makeup and hair styles. When we got to the picture of Becky I asked Bob,

"Did you know her?' He looked at the picture for a second or so, then looked me in the eye and asked,

"Did you?"

"I wish I did. I only knew her from seeing her in the halls."

"I had her in a class once. She was nice. Real nice."

"She looked nice to me. I thought she was the best lookin' thing in the school."

"Yeah. .Me too, but she was just so nice to be around. She didn't hang around with any particular crowd, but she sure was popular."

Joanne thought she'd be cute and said, "She looks like a slut to me."

Bob almost winced and said, "Hey. That's not nice."

Then me, "Yeah, we're talking about Becky here." I added in a mock tone, "How dare you!"

You could tell by the look on Bobs' face that he agreed. Joanne was surprised she had hit a sore spot with us both, and gave us a startled look.

"Come on. I can be catty if I want to." It's half the fun."

Bob was trying not to overreact. She was just joking.

I wondered if I should tell them my story of Becky. Would it sound too goofy? Not to Bob, I was sure, but Joanne was another matter.

In the midst of all the noise and commotion of PeeWees' Pizza I slowly told Bob and Joanne the whole story. I didn't tell'em the distasteful bits, but they got the picture. I was correct in thinking Bob would understand. Throughout the telling he reacted with little nods of agreement and what may have been sympathy. On the other hand I'm not sure if Joanne could put herself in our shoes. I got the impression she thought I was slightly silly.

I didn't tell them because I needed their approval. It was just a story. It was only a couple of hours before that Messmore reminded me of the whole situation. I just thought it was a neat story. Joanne asked,

"You think she'll show up?"

"She won't."

"You sound awfully sure."

"I guess Becky Gingrich might show up, but The Becky won't. She was just someone we made up."

"What if she does show up tonight. What would you say to her?"

"I never thought about it. One, I can't believe Becky will be here, and two, I never knew her, so what would I really have to say to her."

Bob didn't agree at all. "You've gotta tell her the story. She'll love it. Trust me."

We three consciously kept an eye on the door the rest of the evening. It had been a real nice evening. I had seen half a dozen folks I recognized, but Bob and Joanne were the only ones I spoke to at any length. I felt that I had made two new friends. We made plans to meet a little early for the banquet.

That night I went to sleep thinking about all the guys from Second Platoon. Vivid memories floated to the top. Good and bad. And The Becky. While doing my gardening the next day I constantly found myself mulling over old memories, something I don't normally do. For the first time in twenty something years I missed the guys, wondering where they were now, and what they were doing. Not just curious, but caring.

I got myself as spiffy as possible, then off I went to the banquet. Others had shown up earlier. It was obvious that there were going to be many more at the banquet than had attended the pizza feed. I'd promised myself I was going to mingle. I simply wasn't going to sit in a corner and look at folks. I was going to introduce myself to as many people as possible. I am a sociable kind of guy, but last night had been my first attempt at reunions, and I was amazed at how I had fallen into my old high school rut. Not tonight! I'm gonna have a great time.

Bob and Joanne strolled in about ten minutes after I had arrived. Joanne looked absolutely delicious in a red dress and heels, and I told her so. We made the decision to sit at the same table when dinner was served, then we drifted apart in our own conversations.

I met some of the nicest people. I'd never known them in school, but I was enjoying them tonight. A guy from Bakersfield who'd married a classmate of mine. We talked for twenty minutes about my summers there. Another guy that still worked on custom cars, which is what we all wanted to do way back when, and making a living at it. I was struck by how many had moved out of the area, and had come to town just for this reunion. It appeared that we had all grown up exactly the way we were supposed to. There were those that had traveled. Those that had gotten married right out of school. Teachers. Doctors. I'm embarrassed at how many of them were lawyers. I sat down at a table with a couple that actually lived in Yosemite. I was listening to them tell me about the various concerns with the park when somebody walked by me and bumped my arm with my drink. Just a bump. No mess. She turned to apologize, and when I looked up to see her name tag my heart nearly stopped.

It was Becky Gingrich.

I stood up. I looked into her face. She said something, but haven't a clue as to what she actually said. Blue dress. Blond hair, but short now. She was absolutely beautiful.

I have never, before or since, experienced this reaction. Instantly I had become slow. My face felt hot. Everything around me faded. I thought,"Am I going to faint? I damn well better not!" I thought of my guys. Then. Now. I knew what they'd say. They'd say, "Tell her! Tell her! But don't fuck up whatever you do!" There was a mild roaring in my ears. I had to tell her, but I had to take care. I had to consciously make myself slowly say,

"Hello. It's Becky Gingrich, right?" She looked toward my name badge, but I said,

"No, you never knew me in school, but I've been waiting for twenty eight years or so to tell you a story...if you have a couple of minutes to spare."

I had so much I wanted to tell her in such a short amount of time, but if I forced the issue I would sound like an asshole. I had to be calm. Every word considered. Keep it simple.

She smiled. (Oh, my!) "Well, I suppose so." She was curious, but tentative.

I started at the beginning. Did she remember Bob Kessler? Sixth grade. No? That's OK. He remembered you.

Then I told her the story. About Bob, the one punch, the nighttime ramblings in the berthing compartment, The Becky. She thought I was teasing at first, but I swore not. When I got to the part about her being married with a baby boy her attitude immediately changed. She believed me. She slowly reached out and took my hand. She listened and she believed.

I have never been so succinct in my story telling. I omitted the vulgarities. I couldn't bring myself to explain the violent deaths. Better left unsaid.

With every word I sensed the guys. They approved. My heart ached. I'm amazed I didn't weep, but my eyes were dry. My voice calm. I looked into her eyes the entire time. She knew I was sincere. I finished. My hand was still in hers.

I apologized for taking up so much of her time. Surely she must want to visit with her friends in the room. She didn't move. She told me that her husband didn't want to come to the reunion. She'd nearly cancelled the trip, but now she was glad that she'd come. My story had made the whole trip worthwhile. I attempted small talk. What did she do for a living? She was a fourth grade teacher. (Of course she was!) She had three sons, all grown.

I suddenly realized I was exhausted. Totally spent. I didn't want to talk anymore. The story had gone perfectly, she was wonderful. I didn't want anything to ruin this.

My last words to her were, "I can't wait to get home and call some of the fellas, and tell them you're more beautiful than we ever could've hoped for."

Again she smiled. I thanked her again and slowly walked away as if I knew where I was going. Bob came up and remarked how good she looked. Yup.

They announced seating for dinner. As I approached the dining room I realized that my evening was over. There was no way it could get any better than it already had. I went home. I walked in my front door not more than an hour and a half after I'd left. Judy was concerned, but I explained what had happened. She thought I was silly.

It wasn't even dark yet, but I had to go to bed. I was tired. While laying in bed, waiting for sleep, it occurred to me that maybe I should have had my picture taken with Becky. No, of course not. Who was I to think that I was special enough to have my picture taken with The Becky!...Right guys?

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