The most expensive small piece of real estate at Tay Ninh, perhaps in all of Vietnam, had to be the private bunker next to the volleyball court. No one presently on post knew the bunker’s complete history, as it was now into its sixth or seventh generation of tenants. However, it was easy to see that it had started off essentially as a small hooch copied after the larger barracks. It had had screens from halfway up the walls and a tin roof. The only difference was that the lower half-walls were built of heavy mortar-stopping timbers the original architect had scrounged from somewhere.
Each resident thereafter had improved upon it according to the intensity of his short-timer paranoia, which could be considerable as I was discovering toward the end of my own tour. The timber walls rose to six feet in height, reinforced and landscaped on the exterior with sandbags. A roof was added of the same timbers, on top of which was laid heavy black plastic sheeting to weatherproof the little building. Rocket boxes filled with sand were stacked on top of the plastic, then a layer of sandbags, followed by pieces of heavy metal culvert cut in half lengthwise and laid with the curved sides facing upward to deflect incoming mortar rounds or rockets.
The screen door faced toward the center of the compound and had the added protection of opening next to the back of the supply hooch. Everyone agreed the bunker’s fortunate owner was the safest man at Tay Ninh.
The original owner had simply abandoned it when he DEROS’d. Subsequent occupants recognized the little gold mine they controlled. The second guy sold it for ten dollars when he left. Like real estate everywhere to which improvements are made, it appreciated from owner to owner. The current resident reportedly paid fifty dollars for it.
On a relatively quiet Sunday afternoon while the ongoing volleyball game raged, while Farmer Farmer was hunting for bamboo rats to shoot with his pistol and while some of the Blue boonirats were cheering on Yosemite Sam and Pepe LePhew in a fresh contest with a snake, I happened to notice a sign on the front of the bunker. Its current deed holder, a redheaded guy who flew Loaches, had received his orders. The sign said: FOR SALE. SEALED BIDS. ALL OFFERS CONSIDERED.
I looked it over like any young husband back in the States about to purchase a starter home for his family. I pointed out defects, such as poor lighting and a dirt floor. The scout nodded agreement. He had been sunbathing in shorts when I walked up. He leaned back in his chair against the outside wall and lit a cigarette while pretending interest in the volleyball game.
“A year or so ago,” he began contemplatively, “there was a pilot here named Peters. See that barracks over there? That’s where he stayed. He was like you, Mini-Man—had all the luck in the world. He made it right down to his DEROS date without so much as a hangnail. The night before he flew out of here to catch the Freedom Bird home, Charlie mortared the base. One of the rounds hit his barracks. Peters went home in a body bag.”
He paused to draw on his cigarette. He looked at me with a grave expression and lifted one brow.
“You’re a short-timer, Mini-Man. How many days do you have left?”
I immediately jotted down my bid on a scrap of paper and sealed it in an envelope. One hundred dollars. It was the highest bid. As soon as the scout moved out to go home, I moved in and started my own renovations.
The first thing I did was build a hardwood floor from rocket boxes. I paneled the walls likewise. I moved in my bunk with the mosquito netting around it, ran electricity from a generator, then added the little amenities that made a house a home—a reading lamp above the head of my bed; an electric fan; a tiny refrigerator; tape recorder; radio; TV; a little desk and chair in one corner; and my short-timer’s calendar. My home was the envy of the post. I could probably sell it for two hundred dollars when I left.
The next time Charlie mortared the base, I awoke with a start as the Crump! Crump! Cra-a-a-ck! stomped around the flight line. My first reaction was to make a run for the culvert. Then I remembered where I was. I merely yawned and turned over in bed to go back to sleep.
“Goodnight, Sandy. I’ll be home soon.”