Emboldened by **Master Wang-Ka ** and his great epic, “Learning Literature and The Place Of Ill Repute (loooong).” I offer the following in two parts.
I apologize in advance for the language. Acutally I’ve toned it down quite a bit from the actual experience.
Does this go here? If not, Mods please move it.
Please tell me what you think. As you won’t actually be in the room witnessing me throwing up, lying on the floor sobbing, and sucking my thumb your honest response is desired.
Chapter 1
September 26, 1968
Hill 953 Que Son Mountains, South Vietnam
One green can of C-ration beans and weinies. And it was the
most important thing in Pfc Clyde Saxon’s life. It lay buried in
the depths of his pack, hidden from covetous eyes and larcenous
hands. It was his last can of food. With resupply well into its
forth day of being late Saxon suspected it was probably one of
the last bites of food in India Company. A lapse on the part of
the Marine Corps that was starting to hurt.
After all, he’d informed everyone who’d listen, they’re
supposed to resupply us every three days. We’re where we’re
supposed to be, doing what we’re supposed to be doing. So where
are they with our food? Assholes.
What India Company was doing at the moment was standing
security while the engineers blasted, scrapped, dug, and pushed
the top of Hill 953 into a serviceable firebase for the
Battalion’s artillery.
Relatively speaking it was choice duty. Until the clouds and
fog had set in, rendering resupply iffy at best. But resupply
problems or not it beat humping the boonies all day every day
like the rest of the Battalion, who also weren’t getting
resupplied.
Saxon was thinking long and hard about opening that last
sweet, precious green can. But decision making wasn’t Saxon’s
longest suit. Best he could see there was no way to tell when
resupply would finally happen along. On the one hand he was
hungry now. On the other hand he would be even hungrier tomorrow,
if tomorrow ended up another dry hole.
Finally hunger beat out worrying what tomorrow might bring.
It didn’t stop him from worrying about what the other men in his
squad might say, watching him eat when they didn’t have diddly.
“No use being a total fool about things,” he muttered to himself,
furtively glancing at the other man sharing his position. Maybe
Miller thinks resupply is coming today he speculated hopefully,
brightening at the prospect of some guidance in this area. It
might be okay to eat after all.
“What’ca think Miller, we gonna get resupplied today?” He
hoped Pfc Ormand Miller would think he was just making idle
conversation while he studiously examined the black, ominous
clouds which prevented the choppers from finding the hole in the
trees that was their landing zone. He didn’t mention the can in
his pack. Saxon intended to eat those beans and weinies himself.
He sure as ugly-on-an-ape didn’t plan on sharing with slackers
who didn’t know enough to put something aside for a rainy day.
Not that it was raining much; yet. But looking at the slowly
roiling clouds all around them it was sure going too. Like a cow
pissing on a flat rock Saxon imagined. For a moment, his mind
blissfully off his empty stomach, he pondered the bleak dirty
scar around him that was their new home. They were almost up to
their ankles in dust so fine it ran like water around their
boots. Dust which would no doubt turn into world class gumbo with
just a dab of rain. And wasn’t that going to be a fine mess when
it did he reflected morosely.
But mud gumbo would be tomorrow’s problem. Today’s problem,
he reminded himself was, “Should I eat them beans or not.”
Miller, lying on his back, half under the bushes defining
the front edge of their position wasn’t happy about being woke up
for some idle chitchat. He was hungry too, having eaten his last
can of turkey loaf the previous day, and bleary-eyed tired. With
only him and Saxon in their position he didn’t see himself
getting any more beauty sleep tonight than he’d had the two
previous nights, which was minimal. Last night, ten minutes after
waking Saxon for his watch, and long before he could get to
sleep, the word had come along to saddle up. A squad from 2nd
platoon had hit the shit on an ambush somewhere down the hill.
They were going to the rescue. They trudged down the hill,
practically hanging onto each other to keep from getting lost in
the impenetrable gloom. Everything had been okay when they got
there. The gooks turned out to be . . . well they didn’t know
what, but they weren’t gooks. They walked back. Four hours shot
to hell.
Finally, seeing Saxon was waiting for some kind of response
and wouldn’t shut up until he got one, Miller half-heartedly
mumbled, “Man, I hope so. Lordy, I’m hungry. Somebody ought to
get a butt kicking for this.”
The butt kicking approach was Miller’s standard response to
anything he didn’t like. Which was usually a lot. At six feet two
of muscle and attitude this generally worked out okay for him.
Saxon figured the folks needing a butt kicking were already
getting one. Miller included. Maybe they’d learn to think ahead.
He didn’t think they would. But they might, funnier things had
happened. He also didn’t figure to mention this observation to
Miller who was quick to take offense and mighty handy with his
fists.
“Looks better today. Come on, whatcha think?”
“I think I’m tryin’ to catch some Z’s man. If you’d shut
up.” Miller’s sleepy voice held a hint of warning.
“Yeah, just wondering you know. Like a little somethin’ to
eat about now,” Saxon said, in spite of a sneaking suspicion he
should let it go. All the while pondering the impenetrable clouds
above, around, and, Saxon gloomily suspected, below them.
“I don’t k . . . ,” Miller started then stopped. He stared
intently at Saxon for a few seconds before sitting up. He was
suddenly very interested. “You got something to eat.” It wasn’t a
question. Unlike Saxon, Miller had no problem making decisions,
and even less problem acting on them once made.
Saxon’s stomach lurched. It looked to him like he’d let his
mouth overload his ass, again. Well, nothing to do now but tough
it out he thought. “No way man, I’m just ask . . .”
“BULL! SHIT!” Two distinct words. Each delivered with
maximum force from a suddenly choleric face. “You’re holding out
on me Saxon.” There was a hard, predatory look on his shiny,
black face. Miller was very interested now. It didn’t matter to
him that Saxon had something to eat, more power to him Miller
figured. BUT, lying to him was disrespect, something Miller
couldn’t allow and wouldn’t take from anyone.
Saxon recognized that hard look. He knew Miller fairly well.
They’d been together from boot camp and, except for some leave
before Vietnam, right through today. Not all that big a thrill
for Saxon. Saxon didn’t like Miller much on a personal level. He
wasn’t likely to start liking him any time soon either. Though he
did have to admit Miller was reasonably competent and usually
reliable. He never cheated on his watches no matter how sleepy he
was.
Now Miller was on the lookout for something. Saxon knew he
wouldn’t give up until he found it. Crap, Saxon thought just a
hair too late, shoulda kept my mouth shut.
Miller didn’t like Saxon all that much either. But his
dislike was more general. Miller didn’t like very many white men.
He wasn’t going to start liking the majority of them any time
soon either. Not that Saxon was all that bad a honky, Miller
reckoned. He was just a honky. You could talk to the peckerhead,
some anyway. He did his share, Miller would grudgingly admit if
pressed. He’d also pass along his C-ration cigarettes. No big
deal Miller figured, Saxon didn’t smoke so why shouldn’t he?
But now the ratfuck was lying about holding. Looking me
right in the eye and lying.
“Yeah. You got something to eat. When you white boys gonna
learn, man. I read ya’ll like a book,” Miller said, a big
unfriendly smile on his face as he lazily leaned over and reached
for Saxon’s pack.
The casual way Miller reached for the pack, like he had
every right to it, instantly infuriated Saxon. He stomped his
foot down, his filthy boots barely missing Miller’s outstretched
hand by a thin inch, then jerked the pack away from Miller.
Miller lunged to his feet screaming furiously, his fists
cocked for action. “You better watch your ass, motherfucker! You
kick me, I whup you boy. Whup you bad. You hearing me. Fool!”
Around them men stopped what they were doing, eagerly
turning to see what the commotion was.
On Hill 953 entertainment was, like C-rations, in short
supply. Anything relieving the tedium of watching the artillery
crews set up their 105mm cannons was welcome.
Saxon wasn’t especially afraid of Miller, but he was
reasonably sure a fight between them wasn’t likely to come out in
his favor. This, in itself, didn’t trouble him. Well, some, he
admitted to himself. But shoot, it was just a fistfight. If you
have fistfights, you win some, you lose some. Besides, I’ll get
in a lick or two of my own he reminded himself.
Saxon understood Miller well enough to know the best way to
handle him when he was mad was to stand your ground. Any
hesitation, any effort to be conciliatory, anything other than
making a stand was seen by Miller as fear. And fear was to Miller
what a pound of raw hamburger was to a hungry dog.
Staring defiantly into Miller’s furious face, Saxon rummaged
around in his pack, digging out the can in question. “Yeah, I got
something to eat. Your favorite too, beans and weinies.” Holding
the can up so Miller got a good look, he jabbed it toward
Miller’s face, snapping it back just in time to dodge a quick
slap at the can.
For a second, seeing another wave of hostility cross
Miller’s already contorted face, Saxon thought he’d gone too far.
Then in a flash of, “Fuck you asshole,” he didn’t care. Let it
come. Sooner or later I’ll be tusslin’ with Miller anyway.
“And you know something,” Saxon told him, getting louder and
poking a finger at (but careful not to actually touch) Miller’s
chest, “I don’t even like beans and weinies. That’s why I still
got’m. And your fucking ass ain’t getting a bite.” He stepped
belligerently toward Miller until they were almost (almost) chest
to chest. Daring Miller to make his move.
Saxon thought the race was on and braced himself for the
fist he was sure was coming.
The beans and weinies, which Miller loved and Saxon could
barely choke down, didn’t matter to Miller. He didn’t care that
Saxon wouldn’t share. He sure as hell wouldn’t have shared
either. Privately he figured anyone who did was a fool. But
Saxon’s lying to him, even about something as trivial as a can of
beans and weinies, did matter.
Miller, in his fury, was dimly aware that all around them
people were watching. Some were just curious. Some hoped to see
someone, anyone, get a whupping. Some watching because there was
nothing else to do. Some were judging.
Miller knew the other blacks would be judging him. He had to
shine, had to show. In front of them he couldn’t be seen taking
any shit from a white man.
“Okay motherfucker, you had your chance. Now I’m gonna whip
your ass. Then I’m gonna eat them beans and weinies right in
front of you.” Smiling an intensely unfriendly smile, Miller got
louder, playing to the watching blacks. “Maybe I’ll just make you
cook’m for me too while I’m at it.”
Stepping back to get a little punching room he bumped into
their Platoon Sergeant who had come to see what all the yelling
and screaming was about.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Sergeant Light demanded. He
roughly shoved Miller away and stepped between the two glowering
men. His eyes darted between Miller and Saxon, waiting to see
who’d speak first. A nice technique he’d picked up from his
daddy, a New York cop all his working life. “Son,” he’d said one
day between plays in a Giants - Redskins game, “When you see two
fellows jawing at each other, workin’ up their nerve to fight and
you gotta jump in. Watch‘m close after you jump. The first to go
to jackin’ his jaws is the one with most to hide.” He’d taken a
long pull on his beer and thought a little bit before continuing,
“Most times anyway.”
“Sometimes the one’s most scared will start splainin’,” his
daddy switched to a whiney, little sissy voice “Officer, allst I
was doing was . . . . When you hear that shit you know you
dealin’ with a pussy. Might be in the right. Might be in the
wrong. But a pussy.”
Light had liked that. During his nine years in the Marine
Corps it had come in handy when he had to decide fast what was
going on.
After a couple of seconds, when neither man answered, Light
smiled. It was his patented ‘your ass belongs to me smile’ that
he liked to use on these poor fools hardly out of boot camp.
“That’s what I thought,” he told them when neither man
spoke, “you don’t have nothin’ to do, now do you? Well, don’t you
ever worry about that. Ole’ Sergeant Light is just the fellow to
help you out when the days get long and dull.”
For a couple of seconds he pretended to think. He squinted
his eyes, held his chin in one hand, and peered up at the black
clouds. Finally he broke out in a broad, satisfied smile.
“Water!” He slapped his hands together excitedly. “Yep, that’s
the trick. You two mighty warriors go around the platoon and
gather up all the empty canteens. Then you take’m on down to the
creek and fill’m up.”
They knew enough not to argue with him, even though they
both figured this is way out of line for a little yelling and
whooping. The nearest water was 400 meters down the thickly
forested hill. As soon as they’d gone 50 feet they’d be out of
sight. And more to the point, alone.
“Sergeant Light,” Saxon asked after a few shocked seconds of
silence, “You don’t mean for us to go alone do you?” While Saxon
wasn’t too worried over whether or not he lost a fistfight,
anyone they run into down the hill wouldn’t be satisfied with
giving him a nosebleed. That did give him, and Miller, pause.
Saxon was worried. More than worried actually, nut-
shriveling scared was a good descriptor. Glancing at Miller’s
stunned expression, Saxon saw he wasn’t liking the idea much
either. Only four days ago First Platoon had been engaged in a
brief firefight only a short distance from the creek below them.
A firefight that had cost the Platoon four casualties, Lance
Corporal Eddie Wolfe, their fireteam leader among them.
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