Chapter 9

 

I and I

 

The Vietnam War began to escalate, threatening to engulf the rest of the world. Operation Rolling Thunder was failing to have the effect the brass wanted, of quelling resistance in the north. Bombers were directed deeper into the Hanoi and Haiphong areas, and on 30 July 1966, they blasted the five-mile DMZ for the first time. Vietnam’s closest neighbours, Laos and Cambodia, found themselves in the firing line, and China’s own border territories came under threat. The Soviet Union and China were drawn into a closer relationship with Uncle Ho. Even Britain distanced itself from this latest escalation. The war seemed to be growing increasingly unpopular.

Search and Destroy operations in the south continued in earnest, but it was proving nearly impossible to stem the flow of communist infiltration. In the north, US forces clashed with the NVA.

 

Frank’s guilt did subside a little, although remorse sometimes kept him awake at night. However surviving his first battle had started the process of insulating him against the horrors of the war. After seeing so many other men killed and mangled beyond recognition, Frank’s innocence died, never to be reborn. He tried to write about the battle to his mother, Meg and Pinky, but no matter what words he used, his descriptions always emerged as far too bloody and graphic. They would never understand what he’d been through, and eventually he wrote simply that he’d fought in his first skirmish and survived. He didn’t even think that Pinky would comprehend the violence that he had been through. Learning about war from books and table-top battles was one thing. Actually living through a real life conflict was an entirely different ball of wax.

Eventually Frank wrote everything down in a diary for his own benefit. In the future he would be able to read over his exploits and realise that he’d really done those things, not just had nightmares about them. Sometimes late at night, images of his father would return to haunt his dreams, call him killer, and condemn him to fiery hell for all eternity.

But Frank never once felt guilty about killing the enemy. Only about losing his friends.

Not long after their return from the field, the surviving men of Bravo Company were given three days R & R. The opportunity arose for the grunts to go down to Saigon, get roaring drunk, and find some willing woman to spend the night with. R & R became known as “I & I” – “Intercourse & Intoxication”.

 

Back in 1965, Saigon had all the freshness of a town in the south of France. Known as the “Paris of the Orient”, the city started off as a tiny fishing village. Captured by the French in 1859, it developed over the next 70 years into a major trade centre. Straight, tree-lined boulevards, spacious parks, and stuccoed buildings in pastel shades of buff and cream, with tiled roofs and painted shutters, gave Saigon its Provence elegance. In those days the city was still recovering from post-Diem period, when the eccentric Madam Nhu banned all forms of licentiousness, including the Twist.

When the trickle of US servicemen turned into a flood, bringing an influx of Greenbacks into the country, the once tranquil city changed beyond all recognition. For some the economy boomed, while others slipped into abject poverty. Homeless refugees were forced to live in a stinking, overcrowded urban jungle. A prostitute could earn more than a Vietnamese major or cabinet minister, and black marketeers profited as traditional Vietnamese culture gave way to tacky materialism.

By late 1966, Saigon had become as worn out and corrupt as a blowsy old whore, tarted up in her new outfit of chrome and plastic.

It was into this tawdry hive of sin that Frank and a few of his friends ventured after their three harrowing weeks out in the boonies. After the oppressive silence of the jungle, Saigon was like a whole other world, with its bright lights, pounding music and crowds of Vietnamese and US servicemen. MPs and Vietnamese policemen, known as “white mice”, tried their best to keep the peace, although when so many soldiers with overactive libidos crammed into one place, they often found themselves fighting a losing battle.

In theory at least, it was forbidden to enter Saigon in jungle gear, and unless you were an officer on duty, you couldn’t carry a sidearm. However as Frank and his friends ventured down Tu Do, Saigon’s busy main street, they saw this rule violated numerous times, especially by Special Forces guys who didn’t give a damn about the rules.

When Frank was getting ready to go to town, he holstered his pistol without thinking, and hung his M-16 over his shoulder. Newie tapped him on a shoulder and told him “no weapons”.

Frank couldn’t believe his ears. When he removed the guns he felt naked. Carrying weapons for so long, even sleeping with them at night, had become second nature. How was he going to cope without them?

Now as he watched the Green Berets in their tiger suits swaggering around with their Uzis, CARs, Swedish Ks and other assorted killing machines slung over their shoulders, he wished that he’d brought his own guns. You never knew when some VC spy was going to start some shit, especially in a crowded place like this.

Frank’s friends were far more interested in all the girls on display. It had been months since they had seen so many women; so many beautiful, scantily clad females with shiny black hair, tiny waists and shapely legs. While Frank grumbled about not having any protection, Newie, Georgie, Randall and Pearson ogled the women. Georgie actually stopped in the middle of the footpath, his eyes bulging from his skull, a line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Newie had to grab him and pull him along before he could be knocked over by a Vietnamese pedlar pushing a wheelbarrow.

Tu Do contained samples from all levels of Saigon society. At the top end, near the cathedral, stood all the grand residential and ministerial buildings. Further down, these faded into shops, restaurants, cafes and hotels. At the bottom of the street, down near the river, tailors, curio shops and Saigon’s only department store struggled to survive amongst sleazy bars and brothels all offering GIs a brief respite from combat.

Different bars catered to different branches of the service, and officers would never have dreamed of wandering into an enlisted men’s tavern. Corporal Newie, the only member of the little group with any Saigon experience, led Frank and his friends into a crowded, smelly bar at the very bottom end of Tu Do. Heavy rock n roll music pounded from big speakers, and everywhere lovely Vietnamese hookers beckoned to the newcomers. “Hey, numma one – I be your girlfriend, yes? I so horny!”

Frank was too embarrassed by their forwardness to make eye contact, but Georgie was soon surrounded by these small beauties. Women had never ever shown him so much attention before!

The guys found an empty booth in one corner, and Georgie soon joined them, arms around the waists of two smiling girls with white smiles. Frank sat down and lit up. Lately he couldn’t seem to get enough cigarettes, and more often than not he was lighting a new smoke from the ashes of an old one. While the other guys, Randall and Pearson, argued over a girl who seemed to be interested in both of them, Corporal Newie pushed his way through the bodies to the bar. He showed up a few minutes later with a huge jug of beer and five unfiltered cigarettes.

“How come you haven’t got a girl yet?” he asked Frank. “Don’t tell me the lieutenant scared you with all that Heinz 57 talk?”

“They say there’s no cure for the Heinz 57,” Frank answered in a low voice. “It’s like Chinese water torture – one drip after another.”

Newie snorted. “If you’re that worried, just get the girl to give you a head job. It feels really nice when they fill their mouths with ice. Here,” he pushed the cigarettes towards Frank. “Have one of these.”

“I already got one.” Frank showed Newie his smoke.

“Not like this you haven’t.” Newie picked up one of the long, thin cigarettes, produced his Zippo and lit up. He took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of strange, sweet-smelling smoke all over Frank.

“What is that shit?” Frank demanded.

“Mary Jane’s Tobacco.” Newie nudged the jar forward.

Mary Jane’s Tobacco? Never heard of that! Well, it doesn’t seem to be hurting Newie. Frank pinched off the end of his own cigarette, saving it for later, and reached for one of Newie’s smokes. He lit one and lifted it to his lips. The stuff was rougher than normal tobacco, but sweeter. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Then it happened. A wonderful, light-headed sensation bubbled up from deep inside him, engulfing his brain. Suddenly, his limbs felt as heavy as lead, while his head was bobbing up around the ceiling. He felt like he had been pulled out long and thin like a piece of taffy. He didn’t even realise that he’d collapsed against the back of the seat behind him.

Newie screeched with laughter. “Figured you’d like it!”

With an effort, Frank pushed himself up. “What the fuck is this shit?” he asked again.

Newie lowered his voice. “Marijuana. Cambodian Red.”

Frank took another drag, and the same light-headed sensation overcame him. He had heard of the intoxicating herb, but never thought that he would actually get to try some. “Where did you get this?”

“The barman keeps a box of joints under the bar, for special customers just like me.”

“Wow,” was all Frank could say.

Randall and Pearson finally finished arguing and sat down, each with a girl on his knee.

“Make sure she doesn’t have any broken glass up there!” Frank informed Randall, and burst out laughing. The grunt stared at him for a few seconds, then remembered what he’d asked Captain Crawford just after their arrival in Nam.

“Har har, very funny. Are those what I think they are?” Randall gestured to the joints.

Even Georgie, who normally didn’t smoke, had a toke. He almost coughed his lungs up. This produced gales of laughter from all the men and women. The young man declined a second pull and returned to his beer.

As Frank drank and smoked, he gained more confidence. The girls milling about ceased to be so frightening, and he wondered if he ought to call one over. He hadn’t thought much about sex since coming here, too preoccupied with the sheer strangeness of everything. But night after night of sleeping with other guys, in the jungle and in the GP tent, was starting to take their toll. Now he had a chance to get rid of the skin-bursting hard-ons that plagued him every evening. He couldn’t deny those little Asian girls were quite attractive.

He caught the eye of a small, slender girl with golden-brown skin and shimmering black hair to her buttocks. She wore a striped dress that barely covered her ass and pointy white shoes with spiked heels. She smiled at him, and although her teeth were crooked, they were white like pearls against her skin. Not bad, not bad, he thought as she sashayed over.

“You want girlfriend, jai?” She stopped before him, clasping her little hands together. “Yes, I be your girlfriend! You my numma one!” She dropped into his lap, slipping her thin arms around his neck. Her breath smelled of that powerful fish sauce all Vietnamese seemed to eat, but she appeared clean enough. Her lips found his, and Frank allowed himself to be swept into her embrace. He didn’t even hear his friends applaud.

The evening passed in a dreamy haze. With his arms around his two girlfriends, Georgie staggered off across the bar, towards a set of stairs at the far end. Private Pearson got so drunk that he passed out on the table. Private Randall soon followed Georgie upstairs with his own girl, and only Frank and Newie remained, conscious. A burly guy seated at the bar with an M-16 across his knees attracted the attention of two MPs, but when they mumbled something about weapons to him, he simply levelled his gun, safety off, and cheerfully told them to get fucked.

Frank thought there would be a scuffle, but the MPs slunk out like chastised dogs.

“Come upstairs,” the girl begged, grabbing Frank’s hand in her own hot, sweaty one. “I show you real good time, yes?”

Newie flipped a hand. “Go on Tex. Wear a rubber if you’re worried.”

Frank winced at the thought of rolling one of those disgusting little rubber raincoats over his dick. But if it meant avoiding the dreaded Heinz 57, then he would have to. Besides, it was getting too damn hot and smelly down here. He wanted to go somewhere quiet to clear his head. He allowed the girl to lead him from the booth to those stairs up the back.

 

When Frank woke the next morning, face down in a pillow, it took him a few minutes to work out where he was. Memories returned sluggishly, bursting on the surface of his mind like gas bubbles from a subterranean swamp. Slowly he sat up, rubbing the crap from his eyes – and without warming he was ambushed by a headache of megalithic proportions. He collapsed back on his bed, groaning.

So this is what a hangover feels like, he thought as he stared bleakly up at a grey, mould-stained ceiling. The girl had long since departed, and Frank lay alone in the tumbled, narrow bed. Sunlight slanted in through the little room’s only window. He hazarded a glance at his watch, and it told him it was ten thirty in the morning. Jesus, he had never slept in that long before. Not even before he joined the army.

Wondering what had happened to the others, he slowly sat up again. His head swam and this time his guts rolled sickeningly. He gulped, forcing the bile down. How could he feel so bad after a night of feeling so good? His first real evening of wine, women and song, and he felt like he had come down with a crippling case of the flu.

Some liquid in his bladder began clamouring for release, so he dressed and wandered out into a dingy hallway lined with doors. Vaguely he remembered coming up here with that Vietnamese girl. She had been very obliging while, but he couldn’t remember much after they started pulling each other’s clothes off. He must have been totally out of it. As he was searching for a toilet, another door creaked inwards, and a bleary-eyed young man with unfinished features and a scar running across the side of head peered out.

“Hello Georgie,” Frank acknowledged.

Georgie rubbed his forehead. “Fuck, the last thing I remember is goin’ upstairs with two girls!” he moaned. “Did we do it or what?”

“Only God knows that,” Frank informed him.

Eventually the guys met up outside the pub, blinking and cursing in the bright morning sunlight. "It’s only been one night, and I already feel like going back,” Frank moaned.

“You young fellas have no stamina,” Tim Neumeyer declared. He looked as bright and cheerful as he had the previous morning. “If you don’t want to get a hangover the next morning, either drink lots of water before you go to bed, or don’t sober up. Now come on – I’ll take you somewhere nice for breakfast.”

Frank didn’t want to think about food until the bubbling in his stomach finally subsided. The myriad of strange smells emanating from the numerous Vietnamese eateries and market-stalls kept him on his toes, but the final straw came when Newie started hoeing through a bowl of nuoc mam. The sadistic corporal even licked his lips as he ate. “If you can get used to this rotten fish sauce, you can get used to anything,” he informed his green-faced friends. “Charlie eats this shit all the time, and sometimes the only way you know he’s coming is by the smell of fish on his breath.”

Frank leapt away from the table and threw up in the gutter. Newie howled with laughter.

Frank, Georgie and the other two grunts eventually bought a meal from a genuine Vietnamese burger joint.

The GIs spent the day wandering through Saigon, seeing the sights. It seemed you could buy anything you wanted, for a decent price of course. The streets were filled with endless curio shops, tailors, bars, military hotels and clubs. Frank bought a couple of cheap souvenirs to send home to his mother, Meg and Pinky, and a carton of cigarettes for himself.

Although the influx of American dollars into Vietnam enabled many Vietnamese to find jobs, the average citizen did not find himself much better off. Inflation had soared by 170%, and a great many Vietnamese were still struggling to make ends meet while the Americans lived in luxury. Although the Vietnamese shopkeepers appeared courteous on the surface, greeting their big-spending customers with cheerful smiles, they hiked up prices, spat in food and insulted them in their native tongue. They thought the GIs were big, slow, hairy and smelly. They might have been raking in the cash, but their traditional values and beliefs were being shamelessly compromised.

The randy GIs had little respect for the Vietnamese’s puritanical courtship rituals, and the prostitution of so many Vietnamese women was viewed as a national degradation. Many Vietnamese men believed that the GIs had cursed them with “shrinking bird disease”. This caused their genitalia to wither and become impotent after they had sex with a woman who’d slept with an American.

That afternoon the grunts visited a massage parlour, where hot steam softened their bodies, and wiry little Vietnamese men oiled their flesh, pounded the crap out of their tight muscles, and manipulated their spines in various new and interesting ways. Then the men summoned forth luscious young women with soft hands and lips, who manipulated the GIs’ private parts in various new and interesting ways. The girl who tended to Frank marvelled at the size of his member, and this struck a chord of memory previously muted by alcohol and marijuana.

The girl he had made love to the previous night had gasped when he pushed into her, protesting that he was too big for her. But the feel of her folds surrounding him, so hot and tight, yet juicy at the same time, had already pushed him past the point of no return. Despite her tears he fucked her hard and fast. Luckily for her, this did not take him long.

Still crying, she’d grabbed her clothes and hurried from the room. He passed out.

Now he felt guilty for hurting her, and wondered if he would ever be able to make amends for his cruelty. How the hell would he even find her? She was only one out of thousands. He realised with a sinking feeling that this war was slowly sucking the soul from him, not only out in the field, but behind the lines as well. Already he could kill dinks without a second thought. What the Hell was he becoming?

He let the massage girl give him a head-job anyway, and imagined it was Pinky who was sucking on his dick.

That night Newie took the FNGs to another of his favourite haunts, a jumping, hard-core place down by the river. Sexy Vietnamese ladies dressed in glittering sequin bikinis gyrated on a stage, miming the lyrics to popular Western tunes. When the grunts walked in, they were singing “Nowhere to Run to”. On a dance-floor in front of the stage, other young women bounced energetically to the beat. Their movements enticed GIs out of the shadows, and a few men, already toasted, were dancing with them. Frank wanted to join them. He could feel the beat calling to him, but he was too embarrassed to go up. His friends didn’t seem like dancing types.

Newie obtained beer and more interesting cigarettes for his friends to try. These were painted with opium, and one drag sent Frank high as a kite almost immediately. He quaffed his beer, got up and headed unsteadily for the dance floor.

“Christ, he’s not going to dance, is he?” Newie exclaimed. “Who does he think he is? Gene fucking Kelly?”

“No, he wouldn’t want to rob you of your title, Newie,” Randall retorted.

Newie snorted. He had forgotten all about “Singing in the Rain”. “Okay – you got me.” He lifted his hands. “But that wasn’t really in public.”

“It looked pretty public to me,” declared Pearson, and Georgie nodded.

“G’wan Corporal – give us another demo right now,” Randall prompted.

“Fuck off.” Newie shoved Randall away.

The dance floor was filling up. Three Australians in slouch hats had wandered in and joined the crowd in front of the stage. Frank had made himself at home, and the deadly combination of alcohol and opium turned him into a whirling dervish.

Frank found he liked being crammed in with so many hot, sweaty bodies. Their close proximity sent the blood pounding through him, and his gaze was repeatedly drawn to the male forms as they danced. One GI had opened his shirt to his waist, enabling everyone to see a muscular chest covered with hair. Sweat gleamed on those tight little curls. Frank had to turn and face the other way, where a slender Asian woman with the dark complexion of a Khmer undulated gracefully. She was attractive, but her appearance didn’t boil Frank’s blood nearly as much as the sight of that man’s bare chest. He had a hard-on that threatened to burst out of his pants. Luckily he had pulled his shirt out when he’d first stepped out onto the floor.

Had he not been so stoned, he would have been concerned about this. He was happy to continue dancing with the Khmer woman, who seemed quite taken by him.

Unfortunately she had already given another man the eye, and a few minutes later, someone tapped Frank on the shoulder. He spun around to see a big drunken sergeant behind him, a heavy scowl on his face. He had the clean, well-groomed, well-fed look of a rear-echelon motherfucker. He clutched a beer in one fist, and with the index finger of his other hand, he poked Frank in the chest. “That’s my girl, Private,” he growled.

Frank stepped back, indicating to the guy that he could have the girl. She looked disappointed; obviously she found Frank far more appealing.

But the sarge wasn’t satisfied and stepped forward, pushing Frank with his free hand. Frank bumped into one of the Australians behind him.

“Oy, watch it!” the Aussie shouted.

Frank straightened. “What’re you doing? Jesus, I said you could have her!”

The girl grabbed Frank’s arm and pressed her pert little breasts against him. “Me love you, jai,” she insisted.

The sergeant’s thick brows knitted together and he swung a punch. Despite his state, Frank saw it coming in slow motion and managed to block. Unfortunately, the guy’s beer flew from the fingers of his other hand and drenched the Australian.

“That does it!” The Aussie came in with a haymaker, clouting the sarge in the head. He stumbled and fell on his ass in the middle of the floor. “Look what you’ve done to my bloody uniform!”

The remf sarge had friends, and they appeared as though by magic out of the smoky darkness at the edges of the dance floor. As the sarge picked himself up, the Australian’s two mates came to his aid.

Frank discretely stepped sideways to avoid the impending fight, but one of the sergeant’s friends spotted him trying to back out, and charged him, pushing him half-way across the dance-floor. Men and women in danger of being ploughed under were sent stumbling out of the way. Suddenly it was on. Rear-echelon grunts who’d never seen combat and were filled with months of pent-up aggression clashed with hyped up GIs fresh from the jungle. Drugs and alcohol only helped to exacerbate the situation.

Frank managed to punch his attacker in the face, and he let go of his shirt and stumbled back a few steps. Frank then came in with an uppercut, cracking his jaw and sending him flying. Unfortunately two more guys saw him dispatch their pal, and he was forced to defend himself against two very drunk, very angry privates, one of whom was armed with a broken beer glass. By now, glasses and chairs were flying. The women had done the sensible thing and fled the dance-floor, heading out the front and back doors. The barman ducked down behind his bar to avoid getting hit.

“Frankie’s gonna get cleaned up!” Newie leapt to his feet. “We’ve gotta help him!”

Four more GIs dived into the fray, which now encompassed half the bar.

Two MPs who happened to be passing by outside heard the shouting and breaking glass. When they saw the bedlam, they realised they would probably be killed if they tried to handle it on their own. They called for backup.

Frank ducked a clumsy swing from the guy with the broken glass, just as a tall, wiry blonde corporal leapt out of the smoky darkness on top of the grunt and wrestled him to the ground. A burly grunt with a scar on his head plunged into the other guy and began laying into him with a broken chair-leg.

“Thanks guys!” Frank shouted, then someone cannoned into him from behind, driving all the air from his lungs. He struggled with yet another angry remf. Jesus, the pricks were everywhere!

Finally the MPs managed to wade into the battle with their truncheons and handcuffs, hauling struggling soldiers apart. The three Australians, who didn’t come under US jurisdiction, seized the opportunity to escape into the night. A couple of GIs also managed to bolt, but Frank and his friends weren’t so lucky. All five of the bedraggled GIs had to return to Camp Forsythe that night, and explain themselves to their new company commander.

“So much for R & R,” Frank muttered as his head slowly began to clear. “They should call it ‘Riot and Wreck-Creation!”

 

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