As a member of the 377th Combat Security Police at Tan Son Nhut, Viet
Nam, I was assigned a sandbag bunker, guarding the transient ammo dump.
It was very boring, working all night with nothing to see, and no one
to talk to. Like any good SP, I improvised... Target practice on
rats seemed like a good idea--what could go wrong? C-rations
was the bait, and a helmet the home-defense Search and Destroy
weapon of choice.
I set out a can beans-and-wieners, and
waited in the dark for the commie-hoard to attempt penetration of my
bunker. Moon light filtered in through the bunker's firing slit, and
soon, there were beady little commie eyes scurrying toward the green
can on the dirt floor. WHAMM-O! Got that little sucker--you might
say I beaned him with my helmet! [Obviously, I had been in-country
too long, and was overdue an R&R]
Hey--that was fun... think I'll do
it again. But I had not planned for the KIA-RAT having called for reinforcements.
And before long, there were Viet Cong rats... and NVA rats... all determined to Chow-oi in my bunker--but I was not
afraid. You rats want my C-rats, huh? Well
... take that! WHAMM-O. In no time, I had C-rat cans flying at rats
in a blizzard of cans worse than a shovel of gravel in a laundromat
drier! Noise discipline was ZERO. War? What War? CSC--Command and Security
Control--was calling for a status check every 20 seconds! Ahhh... A-Okay... Marine M60 machine guns were swiveling in my direction
for two-clicks, claymores were redirected, and Puff the Magic Dragon
was dropping flares faster than cops at a train vs. 18-wheeler gas-tanker
accident! And I was not afraid!
The battle raged with give and take,
and I was in a take-no-prisoners mood. There were many misses
and a few close hits. Soon, it became apparent that rats don't play
fair--they don't like being squished into a C-rat can full of dead rats.
WHAM-oo... I missed one big hairy varmint--and another sandbag bled
sand like a dike with a basketball hole in it. Hey... I think
he stole my helmet! Gemmie back my helmet! I was slipping and sliding
on goo that would shame Texas-Roadkill (mammoths) in comparison.
With flashlight in hand, I shifted to
Plan-B... Search and Helmet Rescue. Impossible! How could
those little suckers hide a helmet inside an 8 foot square sandbagged
bunker? No luck, I just couldn't find my helmet.
Then it happened! The rats' reinforcements
arrived: The night commander was making his rounds, checking posts.
Maybe, if I'm good and do my best job, he'll never even notice I'm not
wearing my helmet!!?? So I gave a good loud post challenge: "Hallll-tttt,
who goes there?" (as if the whole dang world didn't know) We exchanged
passwords (I wondered if I still had my magic Captain Zoom decoder
ring). Everything's working according to my plan--the dummy doesn't
even notice my bare head--heh-heh. He asks, "How are you tonight?"
I reply (lie), "Doing just fine, Sir," but think what I wished I had
the wavos to say: I love sitting in the middle of nothing but blackness
for endless hours, without a helmet, surrounded by a mound of dead stinking
rats and beans and wieners... yea, I'm doin' just fine).
The Tech Sergeant with him is reading
my mind and thought-projecting his opinion into my brain (today I
recognize him as a member of the Borg who was determined to assimilate
me). Obviously, he has noticed I part my hair on both sides.
After the L-T has finished his questions which I have sort of satisfactorily
answered: Air Force? Ahhh... I love the Air Force, Sir... Vietnam?
... I love Vietnam, Sir. Third Post Security Instruction is... aha... (is this a trick question?) He nods, and started toward
the next post, satisfied that he had stumped the dimwitted Airman. I
relaxed a little. My thoughts began to drift toward Plan-C... where
can I find another helmet? I wondered where I could steal
a Plan-C sledgehammer? Oh well, at least I won't get my butt kicked
by the L-T tonight. And then my heart jumps into my throat as I heard: "COOK, WHERE THE @!%$&^! IS YOUR HELMET???!!!"
Now, I was afraid. There's two
things you never leave home without, and one of them is your helmet.
The grinning TSgt had obviously ratted on me. It was not a pretty
sight as I tried to explain about the Godzilla rats and my valiant defense
of government property (me), the C-rations, and the Droppler Effect
(whatever) when a helmet is propelled at a certain trajectory
and bounces when gooing a rat. What do'ya mean YOU LOST A @(!*$%
HELMET inside a bunker!?!?! L-T was not buying my creative (lie)
unique (a bigger lie) story... so I puked up a new version of the
approximate truth (a sort of lie containing the beginnings of truth
and a full blown confession). Sarge was impressed that he had
righted a great wrong (enlisted man once again conning a duffus butter-ball
Lieutenant). I wonder what he wants to chat about in the morning?
Okay. So what... I lost the battle
to a bunch of rats (Dobermans in training for the film Alien)!
So what if the bunker rats won this one---there'll be other battles
... I've just begun to fight... and---I've got a new helmet!
