Dress Blues 1

I was 12 or 13. Bill Gano, who'd been a Wisconsin farm boy as a kid, was my favorite step-dad, of several. Bill, along with my uncle Lank Hickman, taught me to hunt and fish in the streams and lakes and mountains of southern Oregon. This little story tells about a moment when things started to change - in what turned out to be a big way -without my even having a clue as to what was coming...

Dress Blues 1

     Bill took me to a gun shop in Klamath Falls. We couldn't afford anything, not even a used rifle. We went there to dream. Maybe they'll give me some overtime, Bill said. And we'll pick spuds together on weekends when they come ripe. Maybe we can get a good used .30-30, not this year, but in time for next deer season. We could sure use the meat, save on groceries. Gotta tell your ma that, or she won't let us spend money on a rifle. .30-30's not the best gun for this country, though. Good brush gun, but short range. Need somethin' that'll reach out farther in this open country, .300 Savage maybe. That's a real nice rifle, got a good long barrel, you get a peep sight on the back, with that long distance between sights, you can be real accurate. Bill liked peep sights. He'd gotten used to them during World War II, when he'd fired the Springfield 1903 .30-06, and later, the M-1 Garand. Ought six's a good caliber, he said. You could get a lot of different loads for it, and you could buy ammo anywhere. 

     We were talking like that, and the store owner, who knew we didn't have any money, was letting me handle a used .300 Savage off the rack. He wasn't busy. "Boy handles a rifle real nice," he said, knowing that'd puff me up, which it did. Puffed Bill up a little too, because he'd taught me. 

     The little bell over the door jingled, and a man walked in. Instantly, the three of us were breathing different air. The man wore a striking blue uniform, topped by - of all things in a dusty logging and cattle town - an immaculate white cap with a brown leather brim and a shiny brass emblem. He removed the cap and tucked it under his left arm as he entered. The dark blue uniform tunic had brass buttons and a funny high collar that closed at the throat, and red piping at the sleeves and pockets. There were medals - some shiny silver, some multicolored cloth - on his left breast. The silver medals seemed to represent rifles and pistols. There was a broad crimson stripe down each leg of the blue trousers. 

     The man knew the gun shop owner; they greeted each other. I could sense a subtle change in Bill, even though he was behind me, looking over my shoulder at the man in the strange uniform. 

     The man in the uniform was watching me, seemingly with approval, handle the .300 Savage with all the aplomb a skinny kid with glasses could muster. He nodded over my shoulder at Bill. "There's a young man I'll be talkin' to one of these days," he said to all of us. Then, to me: "Ever hear of the Marines, son?" He smiled. I was thirteen or fourteen. I knew nothing of him or his world. 

     I did know that both Bill and the gun shop owner had changed when he walked in. 

     "No," I said.

     The man might have said something else. I don’t know. I just remember how he looked, and the feeling he brought into the room. And Bill saying with a testy voice, "He's a little young for that." 

     The man in the glittering blue, white and red uniform did his business and left. I could feel the air in the room return to something like it had been before he came in, though a part of his presence remained. 

     I looked at Bill's face with my question. Part of his answer was already in his face; it contained some mixture of awe and disapproval, with a hint of myth or mystery.

     "Marine recruiter, I guess," Bill said, looking at the gun shop owner, who nodded as he leaned on the counter. I asked who Marines were, lobbing the question for both of them to catch. The store owner said something that confirmed the awe in Bill's face, about Marines being the best fighters. There was more awe in his reply than I saw in Bill's face, with none of the disapproval. 

     I was surprised at the anger in Bill's voice. He said something like, Sure, Marines have a lot of guts, but they don't care, they do all this crazy stuff, just stand up and fix bayonets and walk right into it instead of trying to do the job with less casualties. They get a lot of guys slaughtered just to prove how brave they are. 

     As we walked back to the Studebaker Bill said, very pointedly, that when my time came, I should join any branch of service but the Marines.

     I never forgot Bill's admonition. But the man in blue had done his work.

GUNNY ROGERS, AND SERGEANT VANCE

Though 19, I was still a kid: skinny, glasses, trying to be bigger than I was, I guess. And I also guess that like most of the kids/young men among whom I was standing on this particular day in Marine boot camp, trying not to show it...

Semper Fidelis

                     

Gunny Rogers 1: Mama's boy

     We were in formation on the platoon "street," the narrow asphalt strip between the Quonset huts that were our billets at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego. Gunnery Sergeant David J. Rogers was the Duty Drill Instructor. He was strict about boot camp's spit-and-polish regimen, though not as strict as the others. You could see that he pushed it more for the sake of discipline than of "military appearance," a phrase we heard a lot. Gunny was a combat man. He was said to carry a bayonet scar across his chest from the First Marine Division's great battle at the "frozen Chosin," Korea's Chosin Reservoir. Some of the guys in the platoon said they'd seen the scar one day when they'd been in the Duty Hut on cleanup duty, and "Guns" had his shirt off.

     His older brother had been killed in one of the first tanks to make it to the beach at Tarawa, a name that resonated among us like Mecca does among Muslims or Calvary among Christians. So he'd enlisted in the Marines as soon as he was seventeen, and sure enough volunteered for tanks. I didn't get the impression that he did it out of a desire for revenge so much as just wanting to continue the bloodline, but revenge was probably in there too. Japs had killed his brother, and there would probably be more gooks to fight before he retired, if he made it that far.

     I had done something wrong. Wrong, or at least inadequate, according to the Gunny's way of thinking. He was squared off in front of me. How could he make me feel so small, when he was several inches shorter than me?

     But he did. I can't even remember what I did, or didn't do. Gunny had decided it was time to get in my face because he had sensed some weakness in me, some hesitation about our common enterprise that could cause me to fail in combat, and he was just using some excuse to get his personal welding torch inside my machinery and plug the leak before it was too late. "You're weak." His voice growled from beneath his Smokey Bear hatbrim, that icon of Marineness. The brim nearly touched my nose. His force field was overpowering. I had to struggle just to keep standing at attention, which of course was the point. 

     I was a mama's boy, he said. He couldn't figure how I'd made it this far; he'd had me figured for one of the washouts. He said I was one of those pussies who write complaints about mean ol' Drill Instructors home to their mommies, and their mommies write letters to their congressmen, and their congressmen send some civilian puke out here to fuck with My Marine Corps. 

     "Do YEW write letters like that back home to YER mommy?" Gunny Rogers sneered into my face.

     "No sir."

     "I can't hear you." 

     "NO, SIR."

     "Are yew SURE?"

     "NO SIR!"

     "You're not sure?"

     "Sir, I mean YES SIR!"

     His left hand came up and cuffed me on the right side of the head, knocking my glasses askew. 

     "So, you been writin' letters home to your mommy, sayin' bad things 'bout My Marine Corps?"

     "SIR, NO SIR, I HAVE NOT WRITTEN ANY BAD THINGS HOME ABOUT THE MARINE CORPS, SIR." 

     I hadn't, either.

    "Will yew ever in the future write such letters home to yer mommy, like for instance telling her that mean ol' sonofabitch Gunnery Sergeant Rogers hit her precious little puke of a son?"

     "SIR, NO SIR, I WILL NOT WRITE ANY LETTERS LIKE THAT, SIR."

     The Gunny kept at it a while longer. He went to great lengths to let me know, and in the process let the whole platoon know, that mothers, and mamas' boys, were the biggest problem the Marine Corps and, for that matter, the whole goddamn country, had. He said that if the Marine Corps wasn't allowed to operate in its own good goddamned time-honored, battle-tested fashion, the country might just as well forget about defending itself. 

     The real point he was making, of course, was that if I could stand up to him, I might be able to stand up in combat. After a while, he seemed satisfied that he'd gotten his welding done, and moved on down the line. 

Sergeant Vance

     Sergeant Vance was a recruiting poster Marine, a redhead who wore his hair so short that what little was left blended with his skin, leaving the impression when he wore his Smokey the Bear drill instructor's hat that he had no hair at all. Can't get any neater than that. 

     He had stood some serious sentry duty. One day he was instructing us on how Marines went about doing this. He told us of having a prestige assignment in Washington, DC, where he'd been posted at gates and doorways used by high - ranking government officials to attend important meetings. There was this high muckety-muck conference, he said. It was more important than usual, and it was even more important that no one but people with this certain pass be allowed to enter. Some would try, he was told. They might even be legitimate government officials. They might try to pull rank on you. But if they don't have this pass, you stop them, period.

     Vance was put on the gate because his appearance was always impeccable and because he could be counted on to follow orders and to not be intimidated by powerful people trying to go where they didn't belong. Sure enough, here came this long black limousine, with the driver in a black suit and tie, and a very authoritative-looking older gentleman in the back seat, dressed in a tuxedo. Sgt Vance thought he recognized him from news photos, but wasn't sure. He didn't spend a lot of time with newspapers.

     The driver stopped at Vance's guard shack and rolled down his window. Vance asked for the pass. The driver said he didn't have one, but it was okay because his passenger was Senator So-and-so, whom everybody knew. Vance told him he was sorry, sir, but his orders were not to allow anyone to enter without a pass. The senator rolled down his back window and spoke to Vance, saying he was in a hurry and indeed had a pass but had forgotten it and didn't have time to return for it, or he'd miss this very important meeting.

     Vance said, "Sorry, sir. No pass, no entry."

   The senator had had enough of having his authority usurped by a lowly Marine Sergeant. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to drive on through the gate. 

  The driver barely had the limousine in gear when Vance's .45 service pistol was out of its holster, he'd jacked back the slide and chambered a round, and touched the pistol's muzzle lightly against the driver's temple.

     "You move this car one inch, and I'll kill you," he said softly. 

     The driver and the Senator both turned pale. The limousine turned around and left. The senator squawked like hell, and tried to get Vance busted. His commanding officer said he'd done the right thing, and quietly transferred him to another unit. 

     When Vance had finished his story, one of the recruits raised his hand. Vance nodded: "Yes, Private?" 

     "Sir, would you have shot him, Sir?"

     Vance looked the kid in the eye, letting the tension in the Quonset hut build as if he were conscious of only that one recruit and not the other seventy of us who fretted around the edges of the seconds he waited to speak.

     "Yes," he said quietly, with a slight shrug. "And so will you, if those are your orders. The point, Privates, is this: nobody gets by a Marine sentry who's not supposed to."

                    

29 PALMS 3) FOOTPRINTS

3. FOOTPRINTS

     It was a weekend. I either didn't have offbase liberty, or didn't have any money. I decided to go for a hike in the desert that stretched out behind the barracks to the ridge and beyond.

     Some of the guys wondered at that... Jesus Christ man, there's nothin' out there, it's like the dark side of the moon, you could get lost and never found, it’s just artillery range, you could set off an unexploded round and be found in pieces. Still, somebody offered to go along, one of the others trapped like I was by rules or by the fact that last payday was long gone and it would be a while before "the eagle shit" again.

     I wanted to go alone. I've always had moments like that, when I've needed to separate myself from those around me, to go off and listen to my own voice and to the voice of the world and to a conversation between those two voices without the presence of everyday loyalties and concerns. 

     There was no trail; I just plodded through the sand toward the rocky ridge that made a jagged dark blue line against the crystalline blue of the sky to the East. It wasn't quite summer, so it was hot but without that killing heat that would soon come. (Later that summer, we had a week when the temperature hit 125 degrees every day, when you were conscious of sweating but never felt moisture because it dried so fast, when walking outside made your utilities feel like when you were a kid and your mom had just finished ironing your jeans and you put them on fresh off the ironing board and they burned your legs.) I had my cartridge belt with two canteens, and a couple of candy bars. I'd be okay as long as I kept my bearings, which I'd grown up doing, though not in country like this. 

     Approaching the ridge, then crossing it, didn't seem as dramatic as it should have been. I just kept walking, and the terrain gradually changed, the ridge looking bigger as the omnipresent sun signaled midday, then receded into a blue shape that looked much like it did from the base on its other side. The land beyond the ridge may or may not have been very different from the land where the base's buildings, which I now imagine would have appeared as rows of Monopoly real estate assets if viewed from the air, were laid out in rectilinear rows. It seemed that, perhaps less for its total lack of human constructions than for the fact that without buildings to look at, and without the skull-occupying concerns that went with those buildings, I was now forced to look at the land itself, and not at the next street corner, the movie marquee, the shaved brown legs and halter tops of the officers' wives and daughters as they walked in and out of the PX. 

     The land beyond the ridge was just big and empty. Vegetation was low, sparse: struggling to get enough water and not too much sunlight. Arroyos etched by flash floods lent occasional textural relief, but in the picture now bounded by my horizons, plant life and geological features dissolved into the vastness. 

     I walked and walked, keeping the ridge at my back. Sometime in the afternoon I stopped to drink from my second canteen, and to look around. There was nothing but the sameness of the desert, the empty sunblasted distance capped by a skyfull of sun. I continued my slow turning, then pulled the canteen away in mid-swallow. I must have been standing on a slight rise, though I hadn't noticed climbing one, still hadn't noticed any significant change in the empty landscape. I saw, off near the western horizon, a lone set of human footprints. They startled me, both by their mere existence and by the fact that I could see them from so far away. I speculated that the angle of the sun must have been low enough to cast a shadow into each footprint, making them visible against the bright sand for a long way.

     What wandering fool, what lonely soul, had been walking there? I let my eye follow the prints: slowly, slowly... as my gaze followed the meandering trail closer to where I was standing, I saw that it was heading in my direction. I followed, as if in dream, the approach of the prints to my hillock, looked down, and was adrenaline-jolted into the realization that the footprints, the only visual interruption of the desert's emptiness, were mine. I was quite startled when I looked down at my boots and saw them standing in the final pair of tracks. 

     It was one of the most naked feelings I've ever had. I turned again, looking in the direction I'd been headed, half hoping that the trail would continue there so I'd have something to follow. But no: as much of the world as I could see was emptiness, and I was but a speck in it. I had arrived at no particular place, and with no signal by which to continue.

     I was chastened, even scared. I turned and followed my tracks back to the base, walking faster than I had on the way out. 

29 PALMS 2) OLD ENOUGH TO BLEED

THIS IS AN UGLY LITTLE STORY I HAVEN'T PUBLISHED BEFORE. I'M DOING IT NOW SIMPLY BECAUSE IT'S THE SECOND OF 3 PARTS, AND SHOWS A MOMENT'S CONVERSATION AMONG A FEW YOUNG SERVICEMEN IN 1963. I CHOOSE NOT TO CENSOR IT, OR APOLOGIZE FOR IT. THIS IS WHAT THEY SAID, THE WAY THEY SAID IT...

29 PALMS 2) Old Enough to Bleed

     It was Monday. In the squad bay of Headquarters Platoon, "K" Battery, 4th Battalion, 11th Marines, we were hashing over the weekend's liberty. This was about the time I remember a Pfc named Waymire coming back from his weekend announcing something really new, really big. There was this hot new group, four guys from England, played this great music, wore their hair clear down to here (putting his hand on his shirt collar). Called themselves the Beatles. 

     "Beetles?!" we howled. "What a stupid fucking name! That’s just an ugly bug.”              

     "Naw," Waymire corrected. "Beatles, b-e-A-t-l-e-s. As in 'beat,' or 'beatnik,' get it?" He was feeling pretty smug with his knowledge of the latest hot civilian thing.                    

     Two of the guys, Lance Corporals, were buddies who went out together to San Bernardino or Riverside or one of the other towns that were within driving distance if you could get your hands on a car that worked. I was nineteen; they were a little older.

     They were talking about their girl friends, two girls who were both fourteen. Both had just said they'd finally gotten to fuck the girls. It had been touchy, with nervous parents not liking the age difference. The guys said they'd played it just right, being patient with both the parents and the girls themselves. They were embarrassed talking about it, too proud not to.     

     Someone made a crack about cradle robbing. One of the guys - the taller one, is all I remember - answered, "Hey. If they're old enough to bleed, they're old enough to butcher."

29 PALMS

29 Palms

1. Ungentle

     I had midwatch, midnight to 0400, walking post around our 155mm howitzers in the battalion's gun park. "Twentynine Stumps," California. Desert, my ass: deserts were supposed to be hot. This place of sand and rock was cold, knucklenumbing fucking cold. 

     I walked around and around the guns. My boots crunched the cold sand. For diversion I broke the ice on shallow puddles left from a recent winter rain. Toward the end of my watch, a new skin of ice would form where I had kicked the holes by the time I made the next pass. The hawk was out. 

     The cold made the stars seem closer. They glittered, along with the frost crystals and the silvery steel barrels of the cannons, the galvanized metal of the quonset huts and the glass headlight lenses of the dark hulking trucks. 

     And cold was clear. The air had nothing in it: no blowing clouds of gritty powder, as came in summer sandstorms; no billows of blueblack diesel exhaust we'd kick up above the motor pool when we worked on our vehicles in the daytime.

     There was no one to talk to, no sound to hear except what I made. But seeing... the fierce clarity of the air seemed to demand that everything around me jump at my eyes. I stopped to look. What was around me - the big guns, quiet now but pregnant with awful noise, the hulking unlovely trucks with their starkly utilitarian knobby tires - seemed peculiarly visible in the cold clear air, seemed to be broadcasting a special silent demand to be seen, just now and just as they were, by me. 

     I took off my right glove. The cold bit deeper, but for a moment I experienced the feeling more as sharp than cold. I touched things. I walked up to where the inclined barrel of a 155mm howitzer pointed off toward the low jagged ridge that formed the base's horizon to the east. The combined light of cold stars and cold moon and cold floodlight crept into the cannon's dark maw and disappeared. 

     I reached up and put my bare fingers into the howitzer's mouth, just over six inches in diameter. The steel's deep cold bit my fingers. I looked at the steel ridges of the rifling that spiraled down into the barrel. The ridges were square and sharp. 

     The canvas covering lashed over the cannon's breech was frozen stiff, rough to the touch. I kept touching cold rough things: the howitzer's tractorlike tires, the steel wheels, the lug nuts big as a medium-sized dog’s paw, the sharply threaded studs onto which the nuts were tightened, the gun's two I-beam ways that converged at the towring, the angular fenders of the trucks, the crude steel grates that guarded their headlights, the frozen ropes, the canvas, the chains. I touched my own uniform, my equipment: the hard angles of the grooves in my rifle's flash suppressor, the machined edges of its receiver and operating rod handle, the serrated windage and elevation knobs on either side of the rear sight, the grooved plastic canteen cap with its flat keeper chain, the rough web belt, the checkered bayonet handle with its machined slot for my rifle's bayonet lug, my canvas field jacket, more rough than warm; the webbed rifle sling that cut its groove into my shoulder, the inhospitable steel pot on my head. Snaps, buckles, zippers, eyelets, all with their clear signal of what was to come. My mind scanned the words I knew, feeling that one word, and one only, was trying to insinuate itself into a prominent position before me. It came: ungentle. I had, through the simple succession of my own choices from among life's options, landed myself in a situation where nothing soft or gentle or comfortable or comforting was to be found.

     I put my glove back on, slapped my hands together, and went back to walking my post.

WARTIME IS WONDERFUL

Wartime Is Wonderful

When we first occupied the section of the First Marine Division perimeter overlooking the Song Tra Bong River, we used to shit in a slit trench, which you'd straddle and squat over and do your business as fast as you could to minimize the number of big black flies that buzzed up your asshole. And we pissed in piss tubes: they were empty, olive drab, cylindrical steel powder canisters - the ones from 155mm howitzers or 8" Long Tom self-propelled guns were best - with one end buried in the ground. We'd place them at a slight angle to the ground, with the top of the canister just below dick level. You just walked up, unbuttoned your fly, and pissed in it. As time went on, and the occasional Navy nurse or Red Cross "donut dolly" would pass by in an open jeep on the way to the Division CP, we were ordered to drive three tall stakes in the ground, forming an angle between the piss tube and the road, and stretch an old poncho around them at waist height. The road was too far away for the women to actually see our dicks (though some guys would argue that theirs were big enough to be seen from twice that distance). And since the piss tube and our boots were clearly visible between the poncho and the ground, the poncho wasn't concealing the activity. Modesty was a creation of the command structure. Some guys think that that kind of thinking was probably what lost us the war. Funny, but then war is funny. Funny as the rest of what we do. 

     A couple of weeks before my tour was up, the troops' complaints to me, as senior Corporal, rose in frequency and volume: Couldn't we have a decent place to shit? Couldn't we have something with walls, something to keep out at least some of the flies, a little privacy for that private act? (Unspoken: a little privacy too for that more private act, the midnight sojourn with Playboy centerfold or girlfriend's snapshot).

     I took the complaints to our skipper, a fat ineffectual lifer Captain who'd been passed over for promotion to Major so many times that only the war had saved him from being mustered out before he was eligible for a pension. He bounced it back to me in the Marine Corps way: - Take charge, Corporal: form a detail, build a shitter. How?  Figure it out. Take charge. From what?  Find something. Figure it out. You're in charge. Take charge. Charge! 

     Everybody knew that the Marine Corps had nothing but a lot of men (or, as the brass would have outsiders see it, A Few Good Men), some weapons, some ammo, a few vehicles, a lot of canvas gear our ancestors in the brotherhood had carried ashore at places with now-totemic names like Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Iwo Jima. Gear the U.S. Army had replaced with newer, lighter, quieter stuff: plastic canteens, nylon ponchos, canvas topped boots, fiber helmet liners. 

     The Marine Corps had nothing. The Navy, on the other hand, had everything. They gorged the bowels of their great grey ships and brought everything a bush-weary warrior could dream of (except home): hot chow, movies, nurses, building materials.

     So we stole from the Navy.

  It's not that paperwork, and the legions of peculiar humans required to type and sort carbon copies and file and log, didn't come to Vietnam. There were more of them than there were of us. But that was one system, whose function was, as we saw it, to keep the lifers occupied and out of our hair. The other system was the rest of us, operating under the umbrella of, and with the blessing of, combat exigency. 

     Wartime is wonderful that way. It cuts through the bullshit, the pettiness, the insufferable claptrap of everyday life (this is one of the most important reasons why we go to war), reducing one's choices to lean, clear alternatives. Success rules. You pull it off, you don't have to explain. You fuck up, and you fall back into the bureaucratic morass.

     Our detachment was down the red dirt road from the 1st MarDiv command post. The Navy's Construction Battalion (CB, or Seabee) unit that supported the division was in that command post. They'd have what we needed. It would have to be a "midnight requisition," of course. But we wouldn't start that way. Too inefficient. I made a list of what we needed: - 2x4's; plywood if we could get it, planking if we couldn't; nails; some kind of roof covering, including preferred sizes. I took a vehicle and one other man, and we drove over there one afternoon, parked a little ways from the Seabee compound, and walked up to the wire fence separating their materials dump from the rest of the CP. 

     Most of their lumber was stacked pretty close to the fence, and the rest of it was close enough for us to evaluate. I pulled out my list and started checking things off. The sentry saw us, interrupted his circuit of the compound, and made his way halfheartedly in our direction. He wasn't stupid. It was his job to run us off, but since we weren't yet doing anything illegal, and weren’t on his side of the wire, all he could do was glower. Besides, he knew how things really worked, knew that one of the Seabees' real jobs was to haul in vastly more of everything than their own jobs required, so Marines could steal what we needed and go on making war with a minimum of paperwork. The office pogues had forms they could fill out and turn in so some staff officer somewhere up the line could make his numbers match. 

     Time came for our midnight requisition. We had my sketch of the locations of what we needed, and a plan. Lights off, we backed the truck up to the wire, and three or four of us crawled under, leaving one man behind to load, and a second just inside the wire to slip the stuff under. The rest of us fanned out, each with a specific assignment: so many 2x4's from such and such a stack, and so forth. We were out of there in minutes with everything we needed, or a reasonable substitute.

     Hegel wrote - I believe it was in the "Master and Slave" section of his Phenomenology of Spirit - that the man who is forced by those who hold power over him to work on the world with his own hands has a more immediate relationship with the world than does the master, and therefore, paradoxically, has a more empowered position in life than does the master himself. As soon, that is, as he, the slave, understands the true nature of his activity. The slave doesn't need the master to work the land, because he knows how: his hands, his back, his body know how, from hard experience. But the opposite isn't true: the master needs the slave to accumulate wealth from the land, because he can’t do the work himself.

     I knew that then, though I didn't know Hegel had said it. I think that every private soldier knows it, and every factory worker and farm hand and deck hand and seamstress and cook and waitress. Women especially know it, and people whose skin is not white, even though Hegel didn't spend more words on any of those groups than did the founding fathers of our country.

     We made that knowledge work for us. It had to do with where we'd put the shitter. Militarily speaking, the officers would have been duty bound to locate it off in the brush behind the tents we lived in, and far below the ridgeline which went through our position and which was the tactical reason for our having been stuck there.

     But the Captain didn't tell me where to put the shitter; he just said, "You're in charge, Corporal, get it done and don't bother me with details." 

     "Well, guys," I says, "where do we want this fine new shitter we're gonna build?" We discussed military exigency, and we discussed our own social priorities, and we discussed beauty and convenience. Over the next few days, between radio watches and sentry duty, we built the shitter. We scraped the red dirt at four corners until the tops of four pyramidal concrete piers were level, and built a plank floor on them. The two end walls were trapezoidal, so the roof would slant enough to carry off the rain. The bottom half of the back wall was hinged, so the halves of 55-gallon diesel drums - four of them, one under each hole - could be pulled out and their contents doused with diesel fuel every few days and lit up to produce the bilious clouds of black smoke and the stench that, to this day, clings to the nostril hairs of every Vietnam veteran. (Scholars, please see Bruce Weigl's excellent poem, "Burning Shit at An Khe".) We ruined all manner of saw blades trying to cut the steel drums in half, before we went at them with an ax, driving it blow by blow through the steel with a sledge hammer, taking turns with the relentless sweaty pounding until the two drums were cut into four jagged-topped halves. 

     The front had - get this - an actual door, steel hinges and all, that could be closed, and a coil spring to keep it closed.

     When I left the outfit a few days later, there it stood, our fine new fourholer, right smack on the ridgeline, with a golfcourse quality view - screened, of course - of the Song Tra Bong River valley, where you could sit and shit in peace, read, beat your meat, or just enjoy the view. It was especially nice at sunrise. The breeze that came up the valley ventilated it as well as an outhouse can be ventilated. It was convenient to the enlisted men's tent, but quite a longer hike from the officers' tent. Xin loi, sorry 'bout that.

     A couple of months after I left, I got a letter from Martin Luther Ealy, who was still there at Chu Lai. He said that after I left, they had an official opening ceremony. The Captain had cut the ribbon himself, thereby making his first contribution to the project.

     I still have Martin's letter. He was from New Orleans. He always told me to look him up there, after the war. I wonder if I could still find him. I wonder if he's alive. 

     Martin, are you out there?

SERGEANT OF THE GUARD

Sergeant of the Guard     

     Those days, besides my job in the DASC, I regularly pulled Sergeant of the Guard duty, which meant that I didn't stand watch down in our machine gun bunker. But instead of the four hour shifts those men stood, I was on duty from dusk till dawn, and had to stay awake all that time and be responsible for security along our section of the perimeter, which included supervising the changing every four hours of the two-man bunker details, making sure one man was always awake in the bunker, making sure their EE8 field phone to the guard shack was working, making sure they had the proper weapons and ammo and that everything was working right. 

     This was about the time of the centipede. One night, in the wee hours before dawn, I rang up the bunker: "I'm bringin' down some coffee." I always called before I approached the bunker from behind in the dark, so that if the sentries were especially jumpy, they wouldn't shoot me, and so they wouldn’t hear an unexpected noise behind them and have to deal with any more fear than they already had to: fear of what was beyond the razor-wire in the dark.

     I walked down the trail to the bunker, picking my way by starlight and memory, taking my time but not trying to walk quietly. When I got close, I saw the two sentries and their M60 machine gun silhouetted atop the bunker against the bright light cast beyond the barbed wire by the floodlights mounted off to either side of the bunker. "What the fuck are you guys doin' up here?" I growled in my best NCO's voice. "You're sittin' ducks, against that light...."

     One of the sentries answered in a voice more resolute than mine: "I ain't goin' back in there."

     "Why not?"

     " 'Member that centipede?" Just after they'd come on watch, they'd found, on the steps leading down into the bunker, a centipede about seven inches long and as thick as a man's thumb. It had a leathery shell, segmented like the curved plates of a medieval knight's armor. They'd killed it with a rifle butt, then called me down to show me.

     "Yeah?"

     "Have a look." He jerked his head toward the bunker's entrance.

     I walked over to where the steps were carved into the earth, and turned on my flashlight, absorbing most of its beam with cupped fingers. The centipede was almost gone, replaced by a violently active swarm of ants that were ripping the last bit of the centipede's armor plate into pieces small enough to carry away.     

     We’d been having trouble with a "boot" Lieutenant, one who had just recently come to Nam from officer's training, didn't know shit from Shinola about Vietnam, and was trying to make up for it with that great old killer of warriors, the combination of career ambition, ignorance, and arrogance. 

     Officer of the Day (OD) duty rotated among several small outfits like ours that each manned a bunker or two along that section of the 1st MarDiv perimeter. The boot Lieutenant who was OD on this particular night had a favorite trick: he'd walk around in the dark and sneak up behind the bunkers, as quietly as he could instead of letting his presence be known, trying to catch sentries asleep. 

     Sleeping on guard duty in wartime is an offense which carries severe punishment, and necessarily so. But our line had been probed several times lately, and we were jittery. This one night when I was Sergeant of the Guard, two of our younger guys were in one of the bunkers. They'd heard that the "boot" had OD that night, and had been jawing about him during their watch. That was the last straw: they had rats, they had VC, they had bamboo vipers whose bite could kill you before you took a dozen steps. They had centipedes right out of horror movies, and they had ants that could eat such a centipede down to nothing in four hours. Now they had to worry about noises behind them. 

     They howled all this at me. In the Marine Corps, especially in a combat zone, rank works both ways: you do what the man above you tells you to do, but you also are responsible for the performance and wellbeing of those below you, who can and will demand that you buck The Man if they're doing their jobs and are still being jacked around.

     I was as pissed as they were. It was three in the goddamned morning. We were sleepy and angry and cold and frustrated. 

     Well, fuck it, I thought. I'm Sergeant of the Fucking Guard. These are my people. This is my ground. My job is to manage these people and their weapons in such a way that my ground is not penetrated by any unfuckingauthorized personnel until I'm relieved in the morning. 

     "Okay, listen up," I said. "Here are your orders. I ain't gonna stutter, so get it right. Your job is to protect your front. I will be responsible for keeping anybody from approaching you from behind. From now on, the only person who may approach you from behind, for any reason, is me. I will not come down unless I call first. That means that any noise you hear behind you is an enemy noise. As your immediate superior, I authorize you, in fact, I hereby fucking order you, to throw a frag grenade at any sound you hear behind you. Do not challenge, do not say, Oh excuse me Sir, is that you?, do not say a fucking thing. Just throw the grenade. Be sure to pull the pin first. If you kill some chump who wasn't supposed to be there, and there's an investigation, just tell 'em what your orders were. It'll be my ass. Don't even worry about it. Now. Grenades only. You may not shoot behind you, because you could hit someone in our tents, or you might hit me.

     "Any questions?"

     Both guys grinned their thanks: awright: man wears his stripes.

     I got on the phone and called the OD shack. "We've been having some activity around here," I said. I described in detail the orders I'd given. 

     I called our own Staff NCO tent and woke up the duty SNCO and told him the same thing. I didn't ask for permission; I just told him what I'd done. He chuckled and went back to sleep.

     That was the last we heard from the boot Lieutenant.