Read Online 15 Months in SOG by Thom Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thom Nicholson
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flirted outrageously with Pham’s older sister, who looked better and better the more wine I drank. Each time, my dashing smile was returned in full by black teeth, filed gap visible, before she shyly covered her face with her hands and giggled helplessly.
If I hadn’t imbibed so much of their hooch that I was incapable of moving, much less procreating, there might have been a half-breed Montagnard in my family tree. I found out later that, in their eyes, it would have been impolite to turn me down if I had insisted on her hand for a one-night marriage. Lucky girl, saved from a fate worse than death. Lucky me, for that matter.
Finally, the women allowed the fire to burn down, by which time the poor cow was very scorched, on the outside at least. The ladies moved in with sharp knives, and set to carving up dinner. Nearly raw hunks of meat and organs were swiftly passed around, men first, and we all set to feasting, much like early man did, I suppose.
The hot meat was juicy and tasty, and I ate my share and more. The cow’s smoking skull was split and the gray-red brains were put on small skewers and roasted over the remnants of the fire. The last of the blood was used as a dip or a sauce. A person would have to have been drunk to enjoy theafternoon, and I really enjoyed myself. The carcass was reduced to skin and bones by dusk.
Sergeant Fischer and my equally sloshed lieutenant poured me onto the chopper when it arrived and held me in as it swooped into the air while I waved good-bye to my new family and friends. I believed myself to have been the life of the party, laughing, flirting with the gals, and telling scandalous lies to everyone who would listen. I guess Pham’s translation raised my stories to even more outrageous heights.
I didn’t start getting really nauseated until we hit some turbulence halfway home to Da Nang. Then, I set a modern-day record for puking out one’s guts at three thousand feet. Any VC below us were subjected to an intense and disgusting bombardment of my stomach’s contents.
I was sick the rest of the month.
5
Jose O’Connor’s Last Laugh
or
Never Enough of a Good Thing
The recovery period for my hangover set a modern-day record for misery. Once again, I renewed the famous and familiar vow, “No more of the hard stuff.” I promised the god Bacchus that if ever I recovered, I’d never get that sloshed again. A pledge I’m proud to report that I’ve kept for the past thirty years.
Experienced SF soldiers, who knew about the effects of the Montagnard home brew, gave me plenty of good-natured ribbing as I slowly and painfully returned to being a normal human being. Even Colonel Isler flashed me a bemused grin the first time I saw him after I emerged from my sick bed. My poor, wasted body was cleaned out, top to bottom. What a way to lose weight fast. If I could have brought it back to the States, I could have made a million bucks. And the weight would have stayed off; nobody would ever have wanted to use that method twice, believe me.
As I’ve said, our camp sat on the beach of Da Nang Bay. The bay was set in a big valley, with high mountains rising to the west and north, encircling a flat expanse of rice paddies nearly ten miles across. It sort of resembled a soup bowl, half buried in the sand. Inside the perimeter of the high mountains was the city of Da Nang, swelled to overflowing with war refugees. Add to the mix about twenty thousand American military men, and you get the picture.
Driving south, away from the city, was the big Da Nang airfield, which was constantly active with jets and cargoplanes roaring off the concrete runways or coasting in for a landing. Helicopters buzzed around like angry wasps, darting here and there on the business of war. There was also a large navy contingent stationed at Da Nang harbor, and ships were stacked up out in the bay, awaiting their turn at the many unloading piers, which were just across the Da Nang River from the
If I hadn’t imbibed so much of their hooch that I was incapable of moving, much less procreating, there might have been a half-breed Montagnard in my family tree. I found out later that, in their eyes, it would have been impolite to turn me down if I had insisted on her hand for a one-night marriage. Lucky girl, saved from a fate worse than death. Lucky me, for that matter.
Finally, the women allowed the fire to burn down, by which time the poor cow was very scorched, on the outside at least. The ladies moved in with sharp knives, and set to carving up dinner. Nearly raw hunks of meat and organs were swiftly passed around, men first, and we all set to feasting, much like early man did, I suppose.
The hot meat was juicy and tasty, and I ate my share and more. The cow’s smoking skull was split and the gray-red brains were put on small skewers and roasted over the remnants of the fire. The last of the blood was used as a dip or a sauce. A person would have to have been drunk to enjoy theafternoon, and I really enjoyed myself. The carcass was reduced to skin and bones by dusk.
Sergeant Fischer and my equally sloshed lieutenant poured me onto the chopper when it arrived and held me in as it swooped into the air while I waved good-bye to my new family and friends. I believed myself to have been the life of the party, laughing, flirting with the gals, and telling scandalous lies to everyone who would listen. I guess Pham’s translation raised my stories to even more outrageous heights.
I didn’t start getting really nauseated until we hit some turbulence halfway home to Da Nang. Then, I set a modern-day record for puking out one’s guts at three thousand feet. Any VC below us were subjected to an intense and disgusting bombardment of my stomach’s contents.
I was sick the rest of the month.
5
Jose O’Connor’s Last Laugh
or
Never Enough of a Good Thing
The recovery period for my hangover set a modern-day record for misery. Once again, I renewed the famous and familiar vow, “No more of the hard stuff.” I promised the god Bacchus that if ever I recovered, I’d never get that sloshed again. A pledge I’m proud to report that I’ve kept for the past thirty years.
Experienced SF soldiers, who knew about the effects of the Montagnard home brew, gave me plenty of good-natured ribbing as I slowly and painfully returned to being a normal human being. Even Colonel Isler flashed me a bemused grin the first time I saw him after I emerged from my sick bed. My poor, wasted body was cleaned out, top to bottom. What a way to lose weight fast. If I could have brought it back to the States, I could have made a million bucks. And the weight would have stayed off; nobody would ever have wanted to use that method twice, believe me.
As I’ve said, our camp sat on the beach of Da Nang Bay. The bay was set in a big valley, with high mountains rising to the west and north, encircling a flat expanse of rice paddies nearly ten miles across. It sort of resembled a soup bowl, half buried in the sand. Inside the perimeter of the high mountains was the city of Da Nang, swelled to overflowing with war refugees. Add to the mix about twenty thousand American military men, and you get the picture.
Driving south, away from the city, was the big Da Nang airfield, which was constantly active with jets and cargoplanes roaring off the concrete runways or coasting in for a landing. Helicopters buzzed around like angry wasps, darting here and there on the business of war. There was also a large navy contingent stationed at Da Nang harbor, and ships were stacked up out in the bay, awaiting their turn at the many unloading piers, which were just across the Da Nang River from the
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