The Hooch

My kitchen is swarming with fruit flies.  I am inured with the convenience of the compost trash; else I could eliminate the problem by moving the miniature trashcan to the garage.  The tiny Drosophila melanogaster are specks in repose, but become practically invisible in flight.

Spraying the surfaces with a pesticide contaminates everything; I might as well spray Raid on my salad.  So, there is no complete solution, but I have in my possession a diabolical gadget which renders me a pyritic soul satisfaction.

Shaped like a child’s tennis racket, the grid is metal wiring, strung in a cross-mesh. A press of the button and the grid is electrified.  It’s a rather unwieldy fly swatter, as the ‘D’ batteries are cased in the handle; nonetheless, a casual swish brings an electrical spark and a loud Crack! One more good drosophila goes to the hereafter. My death racket never entirely clears the air, but I have the small reward of having left the battlefield blooded in combat with the pesky little buggers.

I do realize this is the stuff of young boys.  Boys derive a primitive glee from the destruction of insects and reptiles.  We generally don’t eat our prey as our prehistoric ancestors surely did.  Who would want to crunch down on a squashed locust when there are popsicles in the freezer?

Today, I am so so ecologically correct in my choice of insect control.  The wisdom of my advancing age cringes in remembrance of what I did in Viet Nam.

I convinced my superiors, when they appointed me skimmer coxswain to the Chief of Staff that I should remain close to the four Boston Whalers that composed my little fleet.  Ready at a moment’s notice at a call from HQ, to sortie on whatever mission was required of me.  The position was in addition to my 10 hour days as Boathouse Yeoman and consisted of ferrying chaplains to the hospital ships out in the harbor or delivering a pilot to a bullet boat at Deep Water Piers.  The calls from HQ were infrequent and the position was largely ornamental; but it attached me to HQ staff and very few were anxious to screw around with anyone, no matter how lowly, who reported directly to HQ.

Thus came the acquisition of my hooch, not a stone’s throw from the tethered ski boats in my charge.  Okay, it was an abandoned storeroom, but it was mine—secure from the prying eyes of Shore Patrol, officers and senior non-coms.

At five o’clock, the Division knocked off and made their way back down the peninsula to Camp Tien Sha for chow, a drink (or several), and their bunks in barracks built by the French.  The night crew arrived and went to the Boathouse, not to emerge until seven in the morning.  The three-man pusher boat crews went below decks on their boats, many of which were outfitted with bunks, galleys and air conditioning.

I retired to my hooch.  Removing the padlock, I stepped in and took inventory of the treasures within: a small Toshiba refrigerator, containing exactly two cases of beer cans (I had sixty cases in storage; another triumph of my finagling ways), a double bed built of plywood similar to the ones on the pusher boats, a cache of cases of C rations (more finagling) and enough dope to stone Mardi Gras.  One last comshawed item: a case of olive green insect repellant—pyetherinnes—and a roll of black friction tape.

Plucking the tape and one of the GI cans up, fetching a cold cold beer from the Toshiba, cracking it with a church key (no pop-tops in 1970), I would return to the stoop.  Taping down the button on the bug spray, I would place it in the room and shut the door.  No mosquitos again tonight!

Then I would settle on the stoop, light the first joint of the evening and enjoy the solitude as I awaited the gaggle of friends and interlopers who would finish chow and take the cattle car back up the peninsula.  Soon after sunset, it was party time.

I can’t remember a single night that this did not occur for about eight months of my tour.  We drank and smoked and laughed at our own jokes until about ten, when the last cattle car of the night would screech to a stop up on the road to take the revelers back to Tien Sha.  I would fall back on the bed, fully clothed and sleep till sunrise when duty soberly called me to another ten hour workday in the stifling heat.  Although I was entitled to a day off every ten days, I rarely took it.  Why should I?  Life was good and the war was somewhere else, far far away.  My friends and I enjoyed the privacy and the security of that 8X10 hooch and counted the days to freedom.

When you are young, you think only of yourself, never of others, never of consequences and never of a future in which the sins of youth become accountable.  The residue of those spray cans was on everything I ate, I drank, I smoked and everything I wore. 

Now, with my prostate cancer mercifully in remission, but my diabetes rampant, I wonder if Agent Orange was the only contributor to my present state?  As Dad would always say, how the hell would I know? 

Bertha

Upon waking in the early grey of first light, Bertha came into my mind; a mind of neural cobwebs, which boots up and immediately begins to assail my consciousness.

I hadn’t thought of her in a long time.  I sit with my legs over the side of the bed, sucking on the first cup of joe, earplugs connected to the Kindle Fire, listening to NPR (my apologies once again, Dave Rios, for not tuning in to your morning drive time) and inhaling nicotine in roiling clouds of smoke. (I’ll do a monograph on the pure evil of nico-addiction one of these days; but for now, all you non-smoking crusaders, just shut up and listen).

No, Bertha was not a woman, despite the feminine handle.  She was a long wheel-based multi-fueler, frequently seen on Mash and about every war movie I ever viewed.  She had twelve forward gears, six in each axel ratio, and the work-hard growl of a big working truck. 

Probably, she was used in the initial construction of our home, the Service Craft Division Pier, long before my arrival in Viet Nam. 

I sat on my bed, using Goofy as an arm rest.  In repose, my forty pound Standard Dachshund so much resembles a full loaf of horsecock salami, a staple of every Navy galley I ever raided.  Back to Bertha, or, Big Bertha, as we affectionately called her.

By the time I had assumed my duties as Boathouse Yeoman (think Radar O’Reilly), Bertha had become the snipe’s truck, ostensibly to run supplies and parts for the pusher boats. She sat idle most of the time, but whenever I could dream up an excuse to run errands down to Camp Tien Sha or China Beach, Big Bertha was first choice—even when the Division’s pickup trucks were themselves available.

We ran gasoline most of the time, although with the twist of a knob, we could run on diesel, J-4 aircraft fuel or kerosene. Hell, we could probably have used fermented sauerkraut juice in a pinch.  I would turn the key and punch the starter; Bertha would roar to life belching great plumes of coal black smoke.

Off we would go, my friends and I, like Faulkner’s Rievers, free of the deadly humdrum of the day’s monotony.   I was twenty three.  There was a terrifying war being conducted not twenty clicks away, a war that was distant and none of my concern.  All of us in the ‘rear’ areas, wherever the hell that was, trudged through the 365 days of our tour (yes, Ray, I know the Marines went 13 months), oblivious to the grizzly fighting over the next hill, which nightly came to television sets back in the World.

We focused on whatever would keep the specter of the boogey man of a determined enemy at bay.  Like all young men, we believed ourselves immortal; that one day soon, we would be ‘short in-country’, waiting out the final days of our tour in this sweltering mosquito infested bog.  We would arrive alive in a safe place, never to visit that awful place again.

For the moment, Bertha was our relief.  Churning up clouds of dust and smoke, I would run through all twelve gears to bring her to the top speed of 50 mph, before the killjoy governor kicked in.  Running the gears was not necessary: Bertha was not hauling 20 tons of material; but the young Cannonball-at-the-wheel would not be denied his fun. 

Scattering chickens and dogs in our wake, hearing ‘You numbah ten GI’ shouted in the Doppler of our path from some startled denizen, we careened our way down the highway, three or four of us adventurers packed into the spacious cab of the old sweetheart; each of us made whole by the journey with no thought for the end.

I sit swinging my legs, pressed on Slumbering Goofy, and relive those few halcyon moments from long ago.  Soon, the brain will stir, like an annoying aide de camp, to list all the tasks of the coming day—as much a killjoy as Bertha’s governor.  Get dressed, brush my teeth, shoot insulin, lift Goofy off the bed, take meds, stumble to the coffee pot for the next cup.

Maybe I’ll return to Da Nang someday.  Since the Vietnamese likely commandeered Bertha as they did the entire jetsam left behind, I hope to envisage the old girl, lumbering down those same dusty roads, testator to a young man’s joie de vie in the middle of the worst morass in U.S. history.

   

Missing Walt Kelly

I miss Walt Kelly, who gave us Pogo and the characters of the Okefenokee Swamp. I miss him especially today, because my desire to bring humor to my page has temporarily left me.

You see, I was attacked Monday through a Facebook message which no one else saw. Someone I trusted accused me of faking PTSD for no other reason than to extort more money out of the VA. He has convinced himself, in the thrall of 47% Mittens, that freeloaders like me are at the bottom of what is wrong with us.

It doesn't take much to upset me these days. I stick to my home, my animals and myself partly because I am ashamed of what this dreadful malady has done; partly, because I am working through counseling, medications, spiritual exercises and the comforting support of fellow sufferers to rid myself of this Black Dog and join the sunshine of the world once more.

I trust in the Divine Plan: it has never failed me. The lessons imparted through the pain of experience has always brought the fulcrum back to balance. This latest episode has daunted me, caused me to doubt myself in placing trust in others; but I'll come back. Revealing this to all my friends is a first step out of the mire.

Postscript: to remain faithful to the spiritual principles, I am praying for my attacker. God knows, he needs the help.

45 Rules of Etiquette for Face Book Profiles

There is one dubious theory that within six jumps, everyone is related to everyone else on the planet. What brings this to mind is Facebook, the genial virus we have each invited into our lives. Once embedded, it continually exhorts us to expand our links to friends lost and forgotten and friends yet to know.

It also (lovingly) takes time out of its busy day to gently remind us when we haven't recently visited our profile to come have a good look-see.

Well, this being a day when The VA's daily dosage of Polyethylene Glycol finally kicked in (that's Metamucil to you civilians) keeping me close to Nature's Calling Place and the outside being wet and somewhat chilly as September goes out like a lion, I determined to check out my Facebook stuff with the myopia my little OCD mind can convene.

I was astounded. There were literally hundreds of 'friends' of mutual 'friends' all wanting to be my friend. I took the matter seriously and took a close look at the names and accompanying depictions of potential friends before laying down a few ground rules. As Edgar Cayce would be wont to say, 'We have the patient here...'

I first eliminated people who had no photo attached. If they haven't learned yet how to take a digital pic and post it, they have got to be user-dumber than I am. Discarded.

Next, I scrutinized the posted photos and began eliminating these folks thus:

No pictures of flags, breast shots (more on this in a moment), shots taken with family, spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, favorite pets or the like. Whassamatter? Can't stand up there by yourself?

Further eliminations for grainy photos, too close up, one eye showing or a nose or an ear; wearing masks, period costumes (any period) underwater shots in scuba gear ( I can't afford a vacation to Aruba and I resent those of you who can). Photos of persons hugging a fish or a stripper of either sex regardless of their own sex; shots of your back (whether nice backs or no), photos of celebrities (get a life for Chrissakes!), childhood photos, high school yearbook photos, postage stamps (I don't care if you resemble Eleanor Roosevelt). photos taken by the subject with the camera held at arms length (What? Not another 'friend' in sight?), tattoo shots, head shots reflecting the green glare of a PC monitor, you posed with a celebrity, you holding a microphone with or without a suit, pics of Tinkerbell, baby photos, pictures of you as Christ, Buddha or the Mahatma, you posed with a gun in any position, photos of you after your sex change, you as Bridgette Bardot in her youth, you in a rodeo parade with or without a flag. Photos of weapons (I don't want to claim a MAC-10 as my friend).

I also resisted the urge to beg friendship with many of you women. Some of you looked exceptionally hot; however, I'm rather old fashioned on the matter of introductions. Besides, after four failed marriages, I accept the Divine Dictum that I am unfit for intimate relationships. I'd love to try charming you out of your thongs, dear things, but it is not to be.

So, after this exhaustive purge by the image above your name, I proceeded to the next round: the names listed below:

Politicians or their spouses, anyone with the last name ending in 'realtor', 'attorney' or 'judge'. You are looking for my brother the famous academician. I suspect that your connection to me was through him anyway.

Dead people. I wish there was a way to either take these profiles down or evolve them into memorials.

Celebrities. Thank you Flaco Jimenez; I continue to admire your artistry but we wouldn't make good friends. Besides, I don't know if you are dead or not. Stevie Ray Vaughn is definitely absent from the living and I am not ready to be his friend in the hereafter.

People in prison. Sorry, Enrique.

I did actually ask a few people to be friends, but I know them and would love to stay connected; so the exercise wasn't a complete wash.

I did consider one person unknown to me: Clancy Imiscund has a great photo of him at his desk, holding the phone about a foot from his mouth while he is obviously cursing out someone on the other end. You're my kind of guy, Clance: give me a shout if ever you read this and curse me out. God knows, I need it.

And as for you, M.M. Carrasco, you are NOT Elizabeth Taylor. Go get help.

Finally, I went to my Facebook profile and looked at the profile photos of all my friends. Clearly half of them violated one of the rules I had established. A recurrent daydream is that I could have been a stand-up Jewish comedian working the Catskills--so that I would be free to always end my musings with, 'Go figure!!'.

Dwelling on the Past

I personally do not believe my parents' generation dwelt very much on their war.  It was a singular event with two climaxes: VE Day and VJ Day.  It seems, from what little I have gathered, that everyone went back to whatever square they were on before Dec 7, 1941; and picked up from there.

Jobs, marriages, children; always with one eye on the brass ring of prosperity.  After the free round of drinks in their local taverns, the returning troops just shed their Class A uniforms and went back to forty hour work weeks, to meld into a postwar economy bent on conspicuous consumerism.  Buying brand name appliances with names like Crosley and Kelvinator; cars with Packard, Kaiser and Willys emblazoned on the hood

Well, why not?  It was the greatest victory this country had ever experienced.  We were the champions of the world; shortly to become the champions of the so-called free world.  There isn't a lot to ponder when you are Number One.

Korea was another matter.  Calling it a victory would be something of a stretch.  We didn't out and out lose the Korean Conflict; but sixty years later, we help guard a wall between two parts of one country, praying that another Commie hoard doesn't blow a tinny bugle and mount another suicidal charge.

We may not recall that towards the end, Korea was an extremely unpopular war in this country; sufficiently so that Eisenhower made a truce in Korea a point in his campaign for the presidency (not that he couldn't have won the election without ever leaving the golf course, had he chosen to do so).

Then, there was Viet Nam.  The American War, as the Vietnamese refer to it.  Forty years later, sixty percent of Viet Nam's population were born after 1975.  Do they dwell on the War?  In an exploding economy like theirs, certainly not.

The jolt of reality came to me last year when an aging Bob Dylan performed a concert in Ho Chi Minh City.  The attending crowd was a mixture of Vietnamese and foreigners and the stadium was only half full, but news of the event stunned me into a world I have had to come to accept: no one gives any thought to the Viet Nam War anymore.

Except a dwindling group of tottering white haired old men who are coming out of the bunker they relegated themselves to forty years ago--to see the world as the post-1975 world sees it.

I wear my Vietnam Veteran gimme cap with some trepidation, even now.  Youngsters call me 'sir' and shake my hand, thank me for my service to our country; totally unaware of the core of shame within me that is finally, finally beginning to ebb away.

At the end of 'Saving Private Ryan', the aging Ryan turns to his wife and begs an answer to his question, 'have I lived a good life?'--not for himself, but to give meaning to the sacrifice of the Rangers who saved him, and all who remained forever on the battlefields, to give us that shining victory.

The 'Dirty Little War', as Bernard Fall depicted it, remains the defining moment of my life.  The twelve month tour from 1969 to 1970 has colored every click in my timeline, try as I may to place it in a small felt-lined box on the mantlepiece of my memory.

Despite my uneasiness, I continue to wear my hat now for the 58,000  whose spirits remain forever in that sweltering green jungle half a world away.  I don't dwell on the events, whether the history that was incessantly delivered  into our consciousness by the evening news; or my own insignificant footprints in the sands of China Beach.

But like a low grade fever or a knot in my back, the sense of it is always with me; the foci of the maelstrom that is the life that I have lived

Today, I strive to maintain a sense of gratitude for life and the serendipity of having survived Viet Nam, to bear witness to a national folly.

The final irony?  My elaborately embroidered gimme hat is manufactured in China.