Murphy’s Law, The revised edition.

Phu Bai, still the same tent city with the same dusty view it’s not much of a vacation spot, come to think of it it’s not much of anything at all. The mountains loom off in the distance like jagged purple teeth under the big blue sky during the day while at night it’s a different ballgame. Quite a contrast if ya think about it, here we have relative safety though not without a mortar attack or probes from time to time around the perimeters. The Seabees have kicked some Cong ass in the past down by their compound and I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of their ordinance. They have no sense of humor at all. Good bunch of boys though. If we don’t have a brew in our compound they are always willing to trade off something to keep us supplied. I like that in a group. Proud of em’ and the fact that my Dad was a Seabee even endears them to me a bit more.

As I look off in the distance I think of the hell that’s going on in the hill country, at night the flashes of battle can be seen as we leave the beer tent. It’s an eerie feeling as we sit there and hammer down a few beers knowing that a day ago we were wandering around out there with our ass hanging out as target practice for Ho Chi Minh’s finest. Now some other poor sunsabitches are catching the shit out there. With each flash that lights up the sky you wonder who bought it and who will be flying in KIA or wounded in the morning. This war is relentless and no matter where ya are it’s with ya twenty-four seven. Gotta get a star on our foreheads for trying to drown it in beer but no matter how hard we try it just won’t go away.

It’s been hotter than a two peckered Billy goat, as my Granddad would say, with no relief from the heat and humidity in the near future. As I listen to the Armed Forces radio in the morning I hear the song playing “ The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball, ” And I think to myself, you don’t know the half of it buddy. This sun will melt the balls of a brass monkey and it ain’t much better for us either. This is most miserable place I have ever had the displeasure of being. All ya got to do is think about moving and your soaked in sweat. Once the sun goes down its more tolerable, we can then make our way to the beer tent after chow and enjoy a cold beer. We then raise a toast to our brothers that recently flew the big silver bird to the world. I have seen more than one hard-ass Marine break down after a few beers and it ain’t a pretty sight.  There Ain’t nutthin’ anyone can say or do to ease their pain, except tell ‘em to distance themselves. We cover each other’s six in the field cause our lives depend on each one of us doing our job. On the other hand I don’t want to know the personal history of the guy in the hole next to me. I don’t want to know bout his love life and I don’t want to hold hands with em’ in the shower. Friendships ain’t for the Nam, Acquaintances are. Friendships I’ve learned can be a short-term relationship and detrimental to my psychological being. To this day I have lost four friends in combat that I made at Camp Lejuene; friends that I knew very, very well. I met their brothers, sisters, mothers and Fathers, girlfriends and the whole nine yards and now they are gone from my life and their family’s. Friendships are hard to make and even harder to lose under these conditions. If I am one of the lucky ones who get out of this rat infested shit hole alive, what in the world will I say or could I do to ease the suffering and grief of the family left behind. God only knows, and I wish he would enlighten me.

As you wander around here there are shrines and burial mounds scattered all over the place. This is surely a place where war has had a foothold for many decades. Some of the shrines are beautiful to look at but what it all boils down to is a whole lot of death. Whether it’s a round pile of neatly packed dirt encircled with stones or some elaborate cement shrine with Dragons all over it’s face, dead is dead and there ain’t no way to dress it up. No matter how elaborate or extraordinary it may be. I guess that applies to our guys out there stomping through water boo shit and slippin’ and sliding through the rice paddies. Uncle Sam can pin a Purple heart or a Silver Star on fire pissing Marine but if the medal is presented posthumously it don’t mean shit to the hero and it sure as hell don’t take the sting of death away for mamma or daddy either. Till they can come up with a medal that will breathe life into a dead brother who gave it all I could give a shit less about em’. I was told by a Bronze Star winner that I met over here once, He said,  “ with this medal and thirty five cents I can buy a cup of coffee in the states“. At the time being a newbie and all I didn’t get it, but now that I’ve been here a while I understand what he was saying. Decorated Vets are honored by their own, but the world don’t give ya nuthin’ unless ya pay for it with cold hard cash. It’s a sad state of affairs when a silver dollar is more precious than blood.  It’s not that were lookin’ for something for nuthin’ but honor should be given where honor is due. Hippies get more recognition for being assholes than Westmoreland gets for being General. Though I have heard that General W. and assholes have something in common. Hell even if he were an asshole the size of Texas I would still by him or any NamVet a cup of coffee, asshole or not.

The city of Hue is just about five clicks north up highway one. Before I got here the grunts used to pull liberty there. Then I guess all hell broke out one night and a number of Marines got killed and the rest kicked ass tearing up half the town during the skirmish. Seems Charley came home early and their paths crossed. Oil and water don’t mix. So they made it off limits. What we have to look forward to now to is dust and beer. But I guess that ain’t a bad thing cause at least we’ve got beer to latch on too. Seems like beer has a pretty important role here eh’?

Getting a haircut is a major production now. Can’t get one unless you have an armed escort with ya to watch the Vietnamese barbers. Just before I got to Phubai they came in and set up a tent to give haircuts and a shave. The Barbers turned out to be VC and they killed five Marines by cutting their throats and then piled em’up behind an inside canvas partition and dee deed’d. Needless to say it caused quite a commotion. It’s a little more organized now cause if the barber is VC he knows he’s got an M14 to the back of his head. It makes the haircut a bit more pleasant. I scared the be-Jesus out of one of the barbers there one day. Being an FNG a few months back, I went to get my first escorted haircut. All went fine till the Barber finished and folded his hands and started chopping his fingers on the top my head making a popping sound. I un-holstered my forty-five and stuck it under his neck and cocked the hammer. Sweet Jesus I never heard such caterwauling as I did then. I thought Pineapple, the guy who came in with me was gonna shit his pants. Anyway how did I know that was some form of ritual to drive the evil spirits out of my body? Somebody shoulda told me about that. The barber was a little shaky legged after that and I reckon he may have pissed his pants. But I think I got my point across that all that chopping bullshit best be saved for some other jive ass Marine.

Gotta pull duty at the listening post tomorrow night, not one of my favorite things to do. It’s number one on my list of mind fucks and second only to burning shitters in my book. Trust me burning shitters is a whole lot safer than being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a newbie’s knees knocking’ all night long but this is life in Phu bai. I’m a firm believer in Murphy’s law with one little twist. Whatever will go wrong has already gone wrong and it’ll probably get worse. Murphy is one dumb bastard for showing up here in Vietnam to begin with.

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