(A Vietnam War Story, 1971)
At seven o’clock the South China Sea, and the 611th Ordnance Company area at Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, was in front of him. Lightly lit, the moon drifted down dimming the dirt road in front of the Company area’s office —as if it was under a shadow—(the office shelter, often referred to as a Quentin hut); Corporal Evens enduring the peninsula’s evening heat, slightly intoxicated—sipping on a can of beer, gently walking towards the front road, and past the Captain’s office, on a metal platform, in the center of the Company, used for morning and evening formations. His face was warm, somewhat tired, yet engaged, interested in the commotion taking place there.
Staff Sergeant Fuller, a black sergeant from the south, Dixie, along with Private Presley from Mississippi (who said he was a third cousin or distant relative to Elvis Presley, so he claimed) both looked on, both looked curious, both looked a bit tired and a little under the weather, and in need of a shave, just standing nearby, watching things develop.
“What’s going on in the Captain’s office?” Evens asked. Priestly pointed towards the window, one could see a soldier leaning over the edge of he Capitan’s desk looking down and towards the left corner of his back wall of the office wing.
“I don’t know for sure,” said one of the two voices, Evens now looking towards the window, trying to see the activity inside the office, and just seeing the shoulder and back of a soldier, and a figure on the floor.
“Maybe Private Thompson’s going to kill the Captain, fill him with holes, he’s aiming his M16 right in his face—I think his face, he was anyhow, awhile ago!” said the Staff Sergeant.
Thompson was screaming at the Captain now, who was huddled in the corner like a fetus, screaming like a lunatic. Evens stepped slightly outside of the road’s shadow, under an arch light, closer to the office shelter, a few steps, no more than that, he could see a little clearer now through the upper part of the bugged infested window—the head of Thompson, the rifle in his hands, plus the window was halfway opened, so he could see clearer on bottom the Captain hunched in the corner.
“I swear I saw him earlier talking to himself in his hutch, looking at some pictures. He must had been drinking or smoking weed, or whatever all afternoon. The Captain refused his leave,” said the Crusher (a nickname), really a Buck Sergeant who was taken into the company for rest and recuperation—that is: a lighter duty; he head been out in the bush looking for Charlie, the enemy for several months without much relief, and was going wacky himself. (It was his third stint in Vietnam, three times in a row—or 36-months: he loved the action.)) He had joined the idle standing group. He had returned with a Military Policeman (MP) to assist in this mounting situation. But the MP simply inferred, if he’d try anything, it might provoke the shooter to shoot the Captain, wanting to stand back, wait and see, plus he was waiting for his superior to arrive, a Sergeant.
Then Thompson leveled off: the nose of his rifle sharply lifted upward, and turned along-side, to his left side looking out the window slightly from the corner of his eye towards the crowd mounting, resting the butt of his M16 on the wooden floor; his face rapt, in a childish composure.
“I hope Thompson shoots him,” a voice came out of the gathering by the dirt road. Yet for forty-minutes longer, the ordeal continued with long periods of silence, contemplation, staring of the culprit onto the victim, and then the Captain ducked down further, his head between his legs, as if he was told to say his last prayers. It appeared the Captain was begging, and then crawled about—Thompson peering out of the window now and then, to inspect the gathering, and then they emerged, both standing face to face, the Captain about four-feet away, stiff as a board.
Right about this time, two MPs—the one that had been waiting for his superior and the superior, who was a sergeant—walked down to the side widow to talk to Thompson, a tinge hesitant—Thompson looked tired, worn, less intoxicated than he had been two hours earlier, more in tuned to what he was actually doing, and what was going on: it appeared one of the two Military Policemen knew him. The Captain’s face a little less grim, a little eager for the MPs to talk sense into the Private First Class; the MP’s voice carried a high pitched, an unsure one, but non threatening.
“Oh, I say: Private First Class Thompson! Keep that rifle down and maybe we can talk this thing out.” Each of the MPs had a pistol in their holsters strapped onto a belt, on their hips. They had kept their distance, but now were inching their way up to the windowsill; everyone waiting for a shootout or a quick strike by the MPs. Thompson looked at the police, identified with one.
“What! Don’t do what?” Thompson annoyingly said.
“The rifle, it’s not on safety, don’t shoot us, we just want to talk. I mean, you know what I mean! I mean this is all stupid, the Captain isn’t worth jail time, matter of fact, I think you just won your ticket home.”
In a fainting voice, Thompson started to cry, wail about his girlfriend—then shifted his position, glared at the Captain. Then the two policemen said in unison: “That’s right, they’ll be sending you home soon,” then the superior, the sergeant, added: “Just a little time in the hospital for a psychological evaluation I bet, they’ll call it PTS, and send you home.” (There perhaps was some truth to that, but jail time was downplayed, and a medical and dishonorable discharge were in line.)
Then one of the two MPs moved his hand slowly over the windowsill through the window (the window was halfway open), as the Captain sank down again, this time onto his knees, Thompson contemplating, allowing the MP to grab his rifle as if he wanted this all to end: thus, the confrontation was over, it was kind of an about-turn. Whereupon, Thompson was handcuffed, as the small crowed in front of the office dispersed: seemingly, some disappointed the Captain was not shot. For others indifference, it was no more than an evening’s entertainment, the Captain had very few friends. For the Captain himself, he was more than frightened, more than shaken up, he was nearly out of his wits, and was never seen of after that night, and would be replaced by Captain Rosenboum within thirty-six hours; the First Sergeant, a little black man from the south, pert near always drunk, held down the fort, figuratively speaking, in the interim. For me, I had only been at the 611 for less than two month, I was just haggard out and tired, wanting another beer, and hoping for a good night’s sleep.
#842 (12/22/2011)
At seven o’clock the South China Sea, and the 611th Ordnance Company area at Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, was in front of him. Lightly lit, the moon drifted down dimming the dirt road in front of the Company area’s office —as if it was under a shadow—(the office shelter, often referred to as a Quentin hut); Corporal Evens enduring the peninsula’s evening heat, slightly intoxicated—sipping on a can of beer, gently walking towards the front road, and past the Captain’s office, on a metal platform, in the center of the Company, used for morning and evening formations. His face was warm, somewhat tired, yet engaged, interested in the commotion taking place there.
Staff Sergeant Fuller, a black sergeant from the south, Dixie, along with Private Presley from Mississippi (who said he was a third cousin or distant relative to Elvis Presley, so he claimed) both looked on, both looked curious, both looked a bit tired and a little under the weather, and in need of a shave, just standing nearby, watching things develop.
“What’s going on in the Captain’s office?” Evens asked. Priestly pointed towards the window, one could see a soldier leaning over the edge of he Capitan’s desk looking down and towards the left corner of his back wall of the office wing.
“I don’t know for sure,” said one of the two voices, Evens now looking towards the window, trying to see the activity inside the office, and just seeing the shoulder and back of a soldier, and a figure on the floor.
“Maybe Private Thompson’s going to kill the Captain, fill him with holes, he’s aiming his M16 right in his face—I think his face, he was anyhow, awhile ago!” said the Staff Sergeant.
Thompson was screaming at the Captain now, who was huddled in the corner like a fetus, screaming like a lunatic. Evens stepped slightly outside of the road’s shadow, under an arch light, closer to the office shelter, a few steps, no more than that, he could see a little clearer now through the upper part of the bugged infested window—the head of Thompson, the rifle in his hands, plus the window was halfway opened, so he could see clearer on bottom the Captain hunched in the corner.
“I swear I saw him earlier talking to himself in his hutch, looking at some pictures. He must had been drinking or smoking weed, or whatever all afternoon. The Captain refused his leave,” said the Crusher (a nickname), really a Buck Sergeant who was taken into the company for rest and recuperation—that is: a lighter duty; he head been out in the bush looking for Charlie, the enemy for several months without much relief, and was going wacky himself. (It was his third stint in Vietnam, three times in a row—or 36-months: he loved the action.)) He had joined the idle standing group. He had returned with a Military Policeman (MP) to assist in this mounting situation. But the MP simply inferred, if he’d try anything, it might provoke the shooter to shoot the Captain, wanting to stand back, wait and see, plus he was waiting for his superior to arrive, a Sergeant.
Then Thompson leveled off: the nose of his rifle sharply lifted upward, and turned along-side, to his left side looking out the window slightly from the corner of his eye towards the crowd mounting, resting the butt of his M16 on the wooden floor; his face rapt, in a childish composure.
“I hope Thompson shoots him,” a voice came out of the gathering by the dirt road. Yet for forty-minutes longer, the ordeal continued with long periods of silence, contemplation, staring of the culprit onto the victim, and then the Captain ducked down further, his head between his legs, as if he was told to say his last prayers. It appeared the Captain was begging, and then crawled about—Thompson peering out of the window now and then, to inspect the gathering, and then they emerged, both standing face to face, the Captain about four-feet away, stiff as a board.
Right about this time, two MPs—the one that had been waiting for his superior and the superior, who was a sergeant—walked down to the side widow to talk to Thompson, a tinge hesitant—Thompson looked tired, worn, less intoxicated than he had been two hours earlier, more in tuned to what he was actually doing, and what was going on: it appeared one of the two Military Policemen knew him. The Captain’s face a little less grim, a little eager for the MPs to talk sense into the Private First Class; the MP’s voice carried a high pitched, an unsure one, but non threatening.
“Oh, I say: Private First Class Thompson! Keep that rifle down and maybe we can talk this thing out.” Each of the MPs had a pistol in their holsters strapped onto a belt, on their hips. They had kept their distance, but now were inching their way up to the windowsill; everyone waiting for a shootout or a quick strike by the MPs. Thompson looked at the police, identified with one.
“What! Don’t do what?” Thompson annoyingly said.
“The rifle, it’s not on safety, don’t shoot us, we just want to talk. I mean, you know what I mean! I mean this is all stupid, the Captain isn’t worth jail time, matter of fact, I think you just won your ticket home.”
In a fainting voice, Thompson started to cry, wail about his girlfriend—then shifted his position, glared at the Captain. Then the two policemen said in unison: “That’s right, they’ll be sending you home soon,” then the superior, the sergeant, added: “Just a little time in the hospital for a psychological evaluation I bet, they’ll call it PTS, and send you home.” (There perhaps was some truth to that, but jail time was downplayed, and a medical and dishonorable discharge were in line.)
Then one of the two MPs moved his hand slowly over the windowsill through the window (the window was halfway open), as the Captain sank down again, this time onto his knees, Thompson contemplating, allowing the MP to grab his rifle as if he wanted this all to end: thus, the confrontation was over, it was kind of an about-turn. Whereupon, Thompson was handcuffed, as the small crowed in front of the office dispersed: seemingly, some disappointed the Captain was not shot. For others indifference, it was no more than an evening’s entertainment, the Captain had very few friends. For the Captain himself, he was more than frightened, more than shaken up, he was nearly out of his wits, and was never seen of after that night, and would be replaced by Captain Rosenboum within thirty-six hours; the First Sergeant, a little black man from the south, pert near always drunk, held down the fort, figuratively speaking, in the interim. For me, I had only been at the 611 for less than two month, I was just haggard out and tired, wanting another beer, and hoping for a good night’s sleep.
#842 (12/22/2011)
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