There are times that try mens’ souls, sure enough. Try the rest of ‘em, too. But you reflect afterward that you’d actually had a good time, and that you’d do it again.
There were situations that would arise sometimes that had to be dealt with. It was inevitable. Sometimes minor, sometimes more vigorous in terms of the number of personnel involved: “NOW it’s a party! Ee-haw!”
Three of the latter immediately come to mind. Two of those were ably orchestrated by our Platoon Sergeant Hardass, though he hadn’t been present for the third.
Not surprising - he had a certain effect on people. WE didn’t like him much upon occasion. And much of the time he seemed to hate Us.
A small group of us within the platoon, anyway. And me in particular sometimes, it seemed to my affronted young self. We were both from Back Home in the hills, though, and therefore contrary by nature.
Let’s see…….
There was Incredible; a young Marine who looked older than he was, hardly ever spoke a word, and always had an amused smile on his face at some joke he apparently got that no one else did.
Dog, who had a propensity for barking at people and howling at the moon.
Mason and his camera that got us into trouble once.
Ralph of the thrice broken nose. That mostly from just not getting out of the way in time - he wasn’t too bright.
Larry, who really should have hung out with a better class of people. But he liked us for some reason.
Gary, a barker and howler himself. But that little bastid would Bite you, too. The Staff Sergeant in charge of the guard shack found that out the hard way one night, as they were trying to get the G-man in the cage. Stitches had been required.
I’d run into one of the Camp Guard guys not long afterward (we knew each other - separate incident), and he’d inquired about Gary:
“Your boy doin’ ok? You know - the biter?
“Yeah.”
“There’s somethin’ wrong with him.”
“I know. How’s Staff?”
“He’ll live. But get this - he asked Doc if he should get a rabies shot, hahaha! You believe that shit?”
“No he didn’t.”
“Swear to God.”
Gary was busted back down from PFC to Private for the second time. He’d managed to retain his new rank for an entire two weeks this time, a personal best.
One of us would sometimes sing to him in passing, you know. When we were feeling adventurous, and there was a ready escape route at hand: “🎼Once…….Twice…….Three times a Private…..🎼
“Damn you, OP!”
…….Could you retire as a Private? None of Us knew.
A few others who drifted in and out.
There was myself.
And then there was Hardass. On duty, the man had no friends. Off duty was another matter. For reasons that he himself might be hard put to explain, he seemed to prefer the company of our small group of oddballs and outcasts. Maybe because we were as much assholes as he was.
And so it was; the night of one of the three more memorable occasions mentioned. There were only four of us out together that time.
Was it Ralph?…..No, it was Dog.
Gary.
Hardass.
And me.
It was the Okoura Club, I believe. You got to the bar by way of an interior stairway opening off of the street. Not a particularity big place, but then most places in the ‘Ville weren’t.
Janie (not her real name - don’t remember it) was tending bar that night. Beautiful Eurasian girl in her twenties. She was one of those who was a useful source of good information. If we wanted to know what training we’d be doing in coming weeks, we’d ask her or one of several other barmaids we knew in different places. They usually knew our upcoming schedule before we did. We were continually being adjoined to watch what we said and talked about in those places, but it seemed the same restriction didn’t apply to higher-ups for some reason.
Hardass had I had been sitting at the bar when he needed to make a head call. Dog and Gary were in there somewhere.
That particular bar wasn’t fancy, but it was cleaner than some. Still, it usually smelled of stale spilled beer, with a slight odor of stale piss and a stronger odor of pine disinfectant from the direction of the head (restroom).
As His HardHeaded As Well Honor (you know who) was coming back from that direction, someone else slid onto his vacated seat.
And you know, we’d been having such a good time. I suspected that was about to change.
A tap on the interloper’s shoulder by Hardass, and “You’re in my seat.”
What was this? He was being Civil? Wasn’t like him. Drink up, OP. It won’t last long.
Ignored, he tried again: “I Said you’re in my seat. Get out of it.”
“Fuck off.”
And away we go! H hit him hard enough to knock him off the barstool. And it quickly became abundantly evident that at least half of the Marines in the place were friends of his. We were getting mauled.
It was a Custer situation, and now as then, our fearless shithead leader had gotten us into it.
If you’ve ever noticed, if you get bodily thrown/slammed into a wall hard enough, you seem to kind of stick there like a cockaroach for just a moment before sliding down it.
But, you know, I’ve never been big, and at that time I was in good fighting trim at a hundred and forty pounds. And where had that big degenerate come from?
You can get pared down to just what you need and nothing more if you’re worked hard enough. There was a rumor within the battalion that we had trucks to ride in, but you couldn’t’ve proven it by most of us, since Command preferred we walked everywhere we went, and carried all of our gear and weaponry along with us when we did. Saved on fuel and wear and tear of machinery.
Gary and I, of course, Knew they existed. We were assigned guard duty at the motor pool often enough. For reasons of which we were both entirely innocent, of course.
“This is your fault, OP.”
“BullShit it’s my fault!” A dirty lie of the lowest sort. It was him every time.
“Hot night, OP.”
“Yeah.”
“Guess we should make our rounds.”
“Yeah.”
“We gonna make our rounds?”
“No.”
I’d pass the time by telling stories from Back Home. He’d list out loud by name people he wanted to kill. I was used to it.
Hardass was down in a corner getting the boots put to him by then. No less than eight guys were enjoying themselves at his expense. Those who weren’t kicking and stomping like they were auditioning for Riverdance were on their knees shoving each other out of the way to try to land punches on his face. He could annoy people like nobody I’d ever known.
Dog had been hosting his own party, and Gary was likewise occupied.
On my feet again and on the run. If I could get some of H’s new friends involved in kicking My ass, he could get back on his feet.
Worked like a charm.
🎼It’s a long and winding roooad🎼
It can be a long walk back to Base and then your Company area, too, when you were kind of helping each other along.
🎼Lean on me……when you’re not strong…..🎼
We parted ways at one point: “I’m gonna get this prick to Medical” from Gary.
“Woof woof”. Weakly.
“Shut up, Dog.”
“Whine.”
“You an’ me, OP,” from Hardass a bit later, “we’ll go back out an’ find them assholes - git some payback.”
I spit out another mouthful of blood, and: “We done got our asses kicked once tonight. That ain’t enough for you?”
Felt like a molar was loose. Hoped I wouldn’t lose it.
“Yeah, you an’ me………I’m jist gonna rest a little”, and he passed out. He had the discernible pattern of the partial sole of a combat boot centered on his forehead. It reminded me that I’d soon need a to buy a new pair.
I squatted down, got his arm over my shoulders, and straightened up: “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
