Read Online A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip Caputo
Tags: Military
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by air. We were to mount out from Kadena Air Force Base sometime tonight and land at Danang the next morning.
Danang tomorrow morning
! The words yanked me out of the sluggishness induced by the hot weather and six beers. I felt an adrenal surge, a tingling in my hands and an empty sensation in my stomach, as if I were in an elevator that was descending too fast.
What was I supposed to do? I had never been to a war before. “Well, neither have I,” Lemmon said. “Main thing is to get yourself squared away first.” He read me a list of instructions: make up a field transport pack, stow extra gear in a seabag, et cetera. When that was done, hayako down to the company area. Don’t worry about the troopers, the NCOs would take care of them. That was all he could tell me. Meanwhile, he had to round up the rest of the officers. “What a day the nummies picked for a mount-out,” he said, laughing his strange laugh, which was more a cackle, as dry and harsh as the west Texas plains where he was born.
Heh-heh-heh
, the nummies picked a Sunday; everybody was scattered all over the island, getting drunk or getting laid, and when he reached them in their brothels and bars, they were too stoned to understand what he was telling them.
“I called down at the Kadena O-Club, figuring the boys’d be down there guzzling those French-seventy-fives. Williamson picked up the phone. I told him to hayako his ass back to Schwab because we were going South. He says, ”Oh, bullshit.“ I told him, ”No bullshit, Williamson, we’re mounting out today, goddamnit.“ He tells me, ”Lemmon, I am too shitfaced to go to Vietnam. Send somebody else,“ and hangs up. I called him back and got the same crap. Well, little while later, Major Lyons comes in here and I tell him about my problem with Williamson. So Lyons phones Kadena, gets him on the hook and says, ”Mister Williamson, this is the battalion executive officer. If you’re not here, sober, in an hour, I’ll hang your young ass.“ Heh-heh-heh. Phil, it’s really somethin‘ else, all fucked up…”
Lemmon hung up, leaving me to guess the point of that story, if it had one.
I sprinted back to the BOQ, crashing through the door with a bang loud enough to startle my unflappable roommate, Jim Cooney.
“Christ, what lit the fire under your tail?” He was a few numbers my junior and had just arrived on the Rock, so I composed myself and tried to sound coolly professional.
“Oh, we just got the word to mount out.”
“Where to?”
“Vietnam,” I said offhandedly, as if I commuted there once a month.
“Yeah?” Cooney replied, unimpressed. He would lose half of his platoon in August, at the Battle of Chu Lai. “Vietnam, huh? No shit.”
In spite of the past alarms, I was unprepared for anything more serious than a field exercise. My 782 gear, or field equipment, was strewn about the room and my utility uniforms were being washed by one of the naissons who did laundry at the BOQ, a girl named Miko. Well, there would be no need for starched uniforms in the bush. I dashed into the laundry room, stuffed a few dollars in Miko’s hand, gathered up my bundle, and ran out, with Miko crying in pursuit, “Caputosan, must finish, must finish.” I called back that I was leaving for Vietnam. “Ah, Vietnam,” she said. “Numbah ten. Too bad.”
Back in the room, I worked swiftly to make up a field-transport pack. This burden consisted of a haversack, knapsack, blanket, shelter half, poncho, tent pegs, ridgepole, guy line, an extra pair of boots, changes of socks and underwear, a spare uniform, mess kit, shaving kit, and entrenching tool. Adding a steel helmet, two canteens, side arm, flak jacket, field glasses, compass, knife, and rations, my kit came to sixty-five pounds. The pack felt like a Wells Fargo safe when I tried it on to adjust the shoulder straps. Would we be expected to make long marches through steaming jungles with all that on our backs? I slipped it off and it hit
Danang tomorrow morning
! The words yanked me out of the sluggishness induced by the hot weather and six beers. I felt an adrenal surge, a tingling in my hands and an empty sensation in my stomach, as if I were in an elevator that was descending too fast.
What was I supposed to do? I had never been to a war before. “Well, neither have I,” Lemmon said. “Main thing is to get yourself squared away first.” He read me a list of instructions: make up a field transport pack, stow extra gear in a seabag, et cetera. When that was done, hayako down to the company area. Don’t worry about the troopers, the NCOs would take care of them. That was all he could tell me. Meanwhile, he had to round up the rest of the officers. “What a day the nummies picked for a mount-out,” he said, laughing his strange laugh, which was more a cackle, as dry and harsh as the west Texas plains where he was born.
Heh-heh-heh
, the nummies picked a Sunday; everybody was scattered all over the island, getting drunk or getting laid, and when he reached them in their brothels and bars, they were too stoned to understand what he was telling them.
“I called down at the Kadena O-Club, figuring the boys’d be down there guzzling those French-seventy-fives. Williamson picked up the phone. I told him to hayako his ass back to Schwab because we were going South. He says, ”Oh, bullshit.“ I told him, ”No bullshit, Williamson, we’re mounting out today, goddamnit.“ He tells me, ”Lemmon, I am too shitfaced to go to Vietnam. Send somebody else,“ and hangs up. I called him back and got the same crap. Well, little while later, Major Lyons comes in here and I tell him about my problem with Williamson. So Lyons phones Kadena, gets him on the hook and says, ”Mister Williamson, this is the battalion executive officer. If you’re not here, sober, in an hour, I’ll hang your young ass.“ Heh-heh-heh. Phil, it’s really somethin‘ else, all fucked up…”
Lemmon hung up, leaving me to guess the point of that story, if it had one.
I sprinted back to the BOQ, crashing through the door with a bang loud enough to startle my unflappable roommate, Jim Cooney.
“Christ, what lit the fire under your tail?” He was a few numbers my junior and had just arrived on the Rock, so I composed myself and tried to sound coolly professional.
“Oh, we just got the word to mount out.”
“Where to?”
“Vietnam,” I said offhandedly, as if I commuted there once a month.
“Yeah?” Cooney replied, unimpressed. He would lose half of his platoon in August, at the Battle of Chu Lai. “Vietnam, huh? No shit.”
In spite of the past alarms, I was unprepared for anything more serious than a field exercise. My 782 gear, or field equipment, was strewn about the room and my utility uniforms were being washed by one of the naissons who did laundry at the BOQ, a girl named Miko. Well, there would be no need for starched uniforms in the bush. I dashed into the laundry room, stuffed a few dollars in Miko’s hand, gathered up my bundle, and ran out, with Miko crying in pursuit, “Caputosan, must finish, must finish.” I called back that I was leaving for Vietnam. “Ah, Vietnam,” she said. “Numbah ten. Too bad.”
Back in the room, I worked swiftly to make up a field-transport pack. This burden consisted of a haversack, knapsack, blanket, shelter half, poncho, tent pegs, ridgepole, guy line, an extra pair of boots, changes of socks and underwear, a spare uniform, mess kit, shaving kit, and entrenching tool. Adding a steel helmet, two canteens, side arm, flak jacket, field glasses, compass, knife, and rations, my kit came to sixty-five pounds. The pack felt like a Wells Fargo safe when I tried it on to adjust the shoulder straps. Would we be expected to make long marches through steaming jungles with all that on our backs? I slipped it off and it hit
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