Deros Vietnam (6 page)

“Sergeant, you are a soldier of very high caliber.”

“Knock, knock?”

“Who's there?

“Art?

“Art who?”

“Art Tillery.”

Good for them,
thought Cannon, going on as they did morning, noon, and night. He laughed along with the guys, because he'd been through two wars and two tours and knew that laughter relieved stress and that soldiers in Vietnam needed all the relief they could get.

Truth was, Cannon needed the release too. The war wasn't going well, and every fresh face that arrived from the States for a 365-day tour was more hostile and less friendly and patriotic.

“No way am I gonna be the last fucking GI killed in Vietnam” was their slogan, and they went about their business as if it was business, and not a cause or a mission. Maybe that's why they were assigned to the Comptroller office at USARV headquarters in the first place. That's where all the business of the war was being waged.

Cannon couldn't relate to this new crop of GIs, which is why the joking around helped. It was like the chaplain said during his sermon last Sunday, “As long as we have laughter, we have hope.”

So everyday Cannon played the game, chuckling, pretending to be amused. He wished like hell some of his old Army buddies were there with him, guys like Wilson and Swoboda and Mellen, who understood their role and their responsibility. They'd all gone home and he was on his own, babysitting three dozen goldbricking pencil pushers.

Whatever happened to that war, to those days? There was a lot of laughter then, too, because platoon sergeants with cannon artillery units were usually nicknamed “Smoke.” Add that to Cannon's name and it made for an explosive combination. The laughs and the constant wisecracking back then were less personal, more communal.

The chanting of a familiar slogan brought Cannon back to reality. It was a declaration he heard every night, fueled by sarcasm and marijuana.

We the unwilling, led by the unqualified, doing the unnecessary, for the ungrateful.

Nothing funny about that,
mused Cannon. Not a damn thing. He knew now that he was done with this war, this Army, and these pacifist pussies. He'd file his paperwork tomorrow and be gone before you could say Ho Chi fucking Minh.

But on his way out, Cannon would have the last laugh. He'd be sure to have the XO pay a house call some night to the IO/Comptroller hooch—the information guys were downstairs but were just as bad as these deadbeats—and get them busted for drug possession.

Some Army,
Cannon mused,
when you have to turn in your own guys.

“Knock Knock …”

Battle of the Bulge

The shipments sat inside the rear door of the giant Army Post Office, obscured by mountains of delicately wrapped care packages sent by nervous stateside mothers. Given the popularity of those homemade goodies among the GIs on Long Binh Post, the boxes marked “Cortez” and “Clamato” didn't attract too much attention, which is just the way Myron Swoboda wanted it. The last thing he needed was more grief from his hoochmates about his weight and his love life.

Reason being that the former was out of control and latter was non-existent. The running shoes in the box marked Cortez and the diet beverages, marked Clamato, were designed to help Sergeant First Class Myron Swoboda on both fronts, even in the middle of a war in a far-off land.

His girth notwithstanding, Myron prided himself on being a model soldier. His salute was crisp and tight, his fatigues perfectly starched, and the tips of his jungle boots gleamed in the Southeast Asian sun. Plus, Myron's management of several of Long Binh's larger mess halls, where he oversaw food orders, dining logistics, and dozens of Army and Vietnamese kitchen workers, earned him glowing reviews. Even the mess hall food he served up wasn't bad by Army standards.

“Yo Bodey,” some satiated GI would usually yell across a mess. “This shit's almost edible.”

Myron tried to play it cool when he heard comments like that, but he lived for those “attaboys,” words of encouragement which helped him cope with his daily doses of heartache and heartburn.

SFC Myron Swoboda's heart ached, more than burned, and it ached for Song Le Mai, one of the Vietnamese kitchen helpers at the nearby NCO Club. He loved Mai's smile, her long, jet-black hair, her deep green eyes, and the way she giggled like a high-school girl whenever he spoke to her during a shift at the club.

“Sar-jen Mai Run ver lee fun nee,” Mai would laugh when Myron teasingly asked a question. He'd stand there, trying to think of something else to say to her in English, or pidgin Vietnamese, but he'd always get tongue-tied and slink away.

Myron hated that about himself. He knew he needed to stay put, to hold his ground, and open his heart to Mai. Instead he'd open a can of pork and beans or Spam and slurp a couple of Cokes, drowning his sorrows and swallowing his pride.

All that procrastination was going to cease. Signs pointed that way, and Myron was a strong believer in signs, especially when they came in threes. First, there was the note from his old pal Cannon who was working for the Duffy-Mott company in Hamlin, New York, about some new drink called “Clamato” which could lessen your appetite.

Then there was the shipment of running shoes from Bob Bowman, a recent Army retiree from Eugene, Oregon—a fitness nut who'd just joined a jogging program where they wore the special Cortez shoes.

And just the other day, his mother had mailed him three copies of
The Doctor's Quick Weight Loss Diet.
The book jacket described it as “a high protein, low carb, and low fat diet.” Myron's mother Millie scribbled a note which said:
Sweetie: Try this on (smile). You should eat six small meals a day instead of three large ones. I lost nearly fifteen pounds the first few weeks and am back to a size seven. Here's to seeing less of you! Love, Mom.

Myron's course was now fixed, his assignment understood. He would lose weight, he would be fit, and then he would retire from Uncle Sam's Army, return home and begin a new life, with his new Vietnamese bride, Sang Le Mai.

But first things first. He, she, and the rest of Myron's rotund recruits were about to embark on a special mission, something never attempted in the Republic of Vietnam. Under his leadership, Myron and his chunky comrades were going to become the “Camp Clamato Weight Loss and Exercise Club.”

Pulling it off wasn't going to be easy. It would require as much stealth and skill as any covert military operation. And the undertaking could be risky, too. Myron couldn't bear to think of the ridicule that might be heaped on him if his mission failed.

So, even while the stakes were high and thick, Myron remained undaunted. With all the Army's talk of winning hearts and minds, his “weight loss and exercise club” would reduce Vietnamese behinds and establish his legacy as one of the war's unsung heroes.

And it would win the heart of Sang Le Mai.

As he stood in the NCO club, watching Mai deliver big, juicy hamburgers to hungry and horny GIs, Myron knew he had to move fast. He couldn't bear to watch her slide her delicate fingers into the stack of French fries or sneak a lick of hamburger grease. He knew that as soon as Mai completed her rounds, she and her kitchen comrades would feast on the same high-caloric content. Myron approached Mai's table, operation clearly in mind.

Suddenly, a set of trays crashed to the floor back by the kitchen. Mai jumped, as Sergeant Rob Swenson, the titular manager of the club, rushed over and started screaming at the tiny Vietnamese woman picking up the trays.

“Du mi ami,”
Swenson scolded, leaving little doubt what vulgarity he was hollering at the frightened worker. Myron put his hands over his ears as he looked at the humiliated young woman. Her slim, twig-like figure reminded Myron of Mai's when he'd first met her months ago.

Since then, Mai's figure had changed, now more like a tree trunk than a twig. The larger Mai got, the unhappier Myron became. They couldn't go back to the States this way, like two large shipments of hold baggage.

Myron found himself standing in front of Mai.

“No good,” he mumbled, sliding Mai's tray away.

Mai smiled. “GI get his own food. This for Mai.” She reached over and stuck her fork in a mountain of fries.

“Too much,” Myron slid the tray away from Mai's fork. “Numbah Ten,” he added with a scolding face.

“Food good. Mai like,” she said, making a counter attack on her French fries.

This went on for several minutes, like a bad Three Stooges skit—Myron sliding the tray away and Mai moving it back. One observer who wasn't amused was club manager Sgt. Rob Swenson.

“Enough of the fucking Chinese checkers,” Swenson shouted, smiling a little at his own joke. “Mai, get your ass back in the kitchen.” He turned toward Myron. “You Numbah 10 GI,” Swenson made a fake scowl. “The bigger my girls get, the better it is for my business.”

“Choi oi,”
Myron whistled, trying to keep Mai's attention. “You
dinky dau.
Americans no like fat.”

“There it is,” Swenson countered, poking a finger in the direction of Myron's belly. Mai giggled her schoolgirl giggle. “How come Sar-Jen Myron beaucoup fat?” Swenson pulled his eyes sideways as to appear Oriental. Mai kept laughing.

“Dung Lai.”
Myron shouted, trying to get them both to stop. His face was redder than the ketchup on Mai's tray, so he knew he had to get the hell out of there.

“Mihn oi!”
Swenson shouted after him with his fake accent, using the Vietnamese word for sweetheart. Mai was still laughing as Myron's heart beat louder and louder with every step he took away from the NCO Club.

Myron headed back to the mess hall to finish taking inventory, but he found himself distracted by his fantasy of making love to Mai, of taking her home and showing her off to his old co-workers at the Piggly Wiggly. Then he thought of Swenson and his heart sank. He would've come down every day on the E-5 if it weren't for the deal he'd just cut with Swenson about the Clamato juice and the exercise shoes.

Their arrangement was pretty straightforward. Myron's materials would be sent to Swenson who'd pick them up with his usual shipments, transport them to the NCO club and keep them hidden, the cans of juice slapped on ice in back of the club's frosty fridge. Myron, in turn, would surrender a cartoon each of Kools and Salems, along with a bottle of Hennessy, to Swenson every Thursday, just before Clamato Club was to convene.

“You should be teaching these dinks how to spread their legs, not slim their thighs,” Swenson volunteered during one of their conversations. “A GI needs something to hold on to, not some
baby san
on a diet.”

Swenson's grin was as wide as his boonie hat. Myron quickly looked away to avoid Swenson's omnipresent wink.

“You shouldn't talk about them that way,” protested Myron. “They're good girls, they work hard, and most of them are working two jobs to support their families. They're not here for your entertainment.”

“Sarge, you are living in la-la-land.” Swenson rested his long arm on Myron's shoulder. “It's
all
about entertainment. The war, the girls, the clubs, the booze, the dope, the VC—even you and me!”

Swenson dropped his arm from Myron's shoulder. Myron stared at his massive forearm and the tuft of matted hair bleached blonde by the Southeast Asian sun. The sooner he got away from Swenson, the better.

“Lighten up, Sarge.” Swenson made a mock salute. “But don't push me too far or I'll tell everybody about your little weight-watchers' scheme.”

“All right,” Myron shuddered. “You win. See you next week.”

Walking back to his hooch, Myron wondered how the Army spawned soldiers like Swenson. This draftee from Minnesota seemed to have his hand in everything that went on at Long Binh Post. Why did the Army allow that to happen?

But this was no time for distractions. Myron had to get his ducks in a row. Over the next few days, he worked on a diagram showing the benefits of Clamato juice and how it was a combination of tomato juice, clam broth, and spices. The Vietnamese liked clams, didn't they?

He drew charts outlining the six steps on the
Quick Loss Diet.
He made a sign that said: “NOTHING ELSE IS PERMITTED ON THIS DIET—NOTHING! IF IT'S NOT MENTIONED IN THE SIX STEPS, DON'T EAT OR DRINK IT.”

When he finished, Myron fumbled frantically through his Vietnamese dictionary, trying to find the right words to communicate his vital message.

When Thursday afternoon finally arrived, Myron summoned the Vietnamese workers to the NCO Club. Women of all shapes and sizes stood in the center of the room, smiling as he entered. One of them pushed Mai toward Myron. The rest giggled. As Mai moved closer, Myron led her to a folding chair and gestured for her to sit down. Giggling, the others copied Mai.

Myron began his presentation, complete with props and charts and gestures. He was earnest and sincere, but his audience doubled over in laughter almost as soon as he started. Adding to Myron's discomfort was the Club itself, which reeked of beer, cigarettes, and hamburger grease. Myron wanted to hold his nose and breathe through his mouth to avoid inhaling anything toxic but that was nearly impossible since he needed his hands free to display his props and brandish his plastic pointer.

By any standard, Myron's Clamato Club meeting was a disaster. To begin with, he didn't have a clue about teaching. Myron rocked back and forth in front of the graffiti-strewn bar, waving his pointer wildly and punctuating the air with his lofty plan. Every portion of his talk took twice as long as he'd planned since Mai, when she wasn't laughing, had to translate everything he said. There was no guarantee that whatever Mai was saying related in any way to what Myron was trying to communicate.

Worse yet, Swenson and his crew repeatedly strutted in and out, using any excuse to parade in front of Myron's class. “Sarge, don't you think the ladies would like to sit on cushions instead of those shitty old chairs? Sarge, can we show your students how to get some real exercise?”