Farewell Uncle Ho 38
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 38 (Sun., Jan. 15)
I had gone to the table to get a cigarette and used my new, still-in-need-of-breaking-in, Zippo. Had no idea why they had to make the wheel, that struck the flint, so hard to turn. Guess there'll eventually be a callous on my soft college-guy's thumb. As I took the long-needed first drag, I saw the mass migration of troops moving toward the mess hall. I looked at my drowsy Gerry. "Hungry?"
"A little." He smiled at me. "What's on the menu?"
I read the box labels. "We've got beef slices with potatoes in gravy, spaghetti with meatballs in tomato sauce, turkey loaf or beef in spiced sauce. What'll it be?"
"Could I have spaghetti with meatballs, please." The way he'd asked this, made me want to cuddle him. At times like this, he was so irresistible. Then I remembered our first encounter on Whitehall Street, and I realized that I'd wanted to cuddle him, when I saw him cowering against the red granite stonework of the Army Building with his scratched face as I picked up my backpack.
I opened the can of spaghetti and the beef slices and placed them on the top of the pot-belly stove to heat just a little. He followed my every move. He sounded pensive. "How did you use the can opener on Morton?"
This was going to be a delicate topic because he still felt a life-long connection to the guy. "I punctured the skin under his eyebrows, so that blood would run into his eyes."
"Why?" He was fighting back tears. I realized that he felt a lot more for Morton than he was willing to admit.
"He'll be fine, Baby. I knelt down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I was outnumbered, so I took him out as gently as possible."
I continued, trying for a matter-of-fact explanation. "Blood is salty and burns like Hell when it gets into the eyes. It coats the eye, making it hard or impossible to see. Most people will rub their eyes, enhancing the effect. All of these factors worry the mind of the opponent and take him out with minimum damage. If you apply pressure to the tiny wounds the bleeding will stop in about three minutes. Sort of like a nosebleed."
"Are you sure that he'll be okay?" He looked at me pleadingly as I handed him his warmed dark-green can of spaghetti.
"More than sure, Gerry." I took my can of grub and sat down next to him. "I'm not going to do anything to hurt your best buddy."
The look he gave me was first one of shock, then he grinned and shook his head. "Can't hide shit from you, can I?"
My mouth was full, so I had to wait to chew before answering him. "No, so don't even try. Wanna beer to go with this?"
***
The day progressed into afternoon. We cuddled, but he seemed distant. Adjusting to Army life was hard enough, but coming to terms with same-sex attraction added fuel to the already raging fire. "Would you mind if we went to the mess hall for supper?" His question didn't surprise me in the least.
"Not at all." I got up to get dressed and then fished the last Pall Mall out of the pack. "And after chow, I'd like for you to come up to help finish off the beer, so I can ditch the bottles. But I think it would be good for you to sleep in your bunk, downstairs."
"You don't mind?" His face brightened with relief.
I laughed and brushed my hand across his short hair as he buttoned his fatigues shirt. "No, I know where you are, so there's no anxiety involved. And you need your own space." I sat down on what had been Sean's bunk to lace my boots. "We don't own each other; we love each other, which requires time out." I got up off the bunk to stand in front of him.
He thought about it and grinned. "I'm glad you're in charge."
"Whoa." I broke in. "Stop, right there." I cradled his face in my hands. "Only when I'm more experienced, am I in charge. But believe me, you're in charge when you know best."
He laughed. "When the Fuck is that going to be?"
"On the firing range, on the grenade range, drill and ceremony, just to name a few." I stated seriously. "I'm depending on you to help me with all that shit. That's what buddies are for. Not to mention lovers."
"But you're always so confident with everything." He chuckled. "I can't imagine you not being able to get everything right."
"Oh, Baby." I had to laugh, and it was a nervous laugh, mainly because I was scared. "You have no idea. The only reason why I knew what was going to happen here at the Reception Center is because Haruki drilled me in marching a week before I reported." I gave him another serious look. "I don't know shit about the rest of it. And I'm scared." And to prove it, my palms were moist.
He took my left hand and noticed the sweat. "I guess this is what love's all about: when you can accept the weaknesses and flaws of your partner and help each other overcome them."
"Yeah, I guess it is." My composure failed as I hugged him. I started to weep on his shoulder, and comfortingly he joined me. We had a good cry, wiped each others' eyes, had a cuddle and left for the mess hall.
***
The walk to chow was subdued. Gerry and I didn't talk. It wasn't that we were at odds with each other, we were just comfortable with walking in silence. Again, Morton and Pierson caught up with us. It looked like they were also willing to bury the hatchet. "Can I talk to Gerry alone?" Morton asked quietly.
"Of course. Pierson and I'll meet you in front of the mess hall." I said and smiled at Pierson, who didn't seem to trust me, since he was looking to Morton for help. So, I offered him a cigarette from my fresh pack, which he took, and gave him a light. "Relax, Kid."
"Why do you hate me?" Was his first question. And the way he was puffing on the cigarette told me that he didn't smoke.
"I don't hate you, Pierson." I put my left arm around his shoulder, which for me, made him feel like a little brother, since he was a head shorter. But to judge by the way he cringed and stiffened, he felt uncomfortable, possibly even threatened. "I just don't want you to make mistakes that you'll regret later." I removed my arm.
"You think that I'll make mistakes because I'm still too young to be a good soldier? That's what my dad says." He seemed defensive but somehow resigned to being an eternal kid.
"That's part of it." I field stripped my cigarette; Pierson tossed his onto the cinder road for someone else to pick up. "The other part is naivety."
"What's that?" He didn't understand the word, that was obvious, but I wondered about the concept.
Maybe I could get through to him. "It's that you see everything in a simplified manner." I decided to leave Gerry out of this. "Remember on the first day, when you wanted to hear Specialist McGrady's war stories?"
"What was with that bullshit that I wouldn't understand?"
"What had just happened to him, wasn't a war movie, where you leave the movie theater after a hundred and twenty minutes and go home." He was nodding, so far so good. "Do you still remember what you were doing on December 7th?"
"Sure, my dad stayed home and got drunk because it was Pearl Harbor Day, and I went Christmas shopping with the rest of my family and was getting ready for the holidays and preparing to report for active duty."
"Well, Specialist McGrady is a medic, you know that." Pierson nodded. "To be exact he's a flying medic. He is one of the bravest guys you'll ever meet. His job is to fly into sometimes hostile landing zones and evacuate wounded soldiers. He would patch them up, more times than not, he'd do this under fire." Pierson still seemed to be taking this in.
"So, on the 7th of December, while you were Christmas shopping, he and his Crew Chief and two pilots -- now, don't forget, these were people he'd lived with and worked with for a long time, he knew their darkest secrets and they knew his; they were his buddies -- had to fly their chopper into really bad hostile fighting to extract two wounded infantry soldiers somewhere near Pleiku, up in the Highlands.
"When they got one of the wounded soldiers on board, all hell broke loose, and the pilots didn't get their chopper up high enough in time.
"Their engine took a hit and caught fire. The two pilots and the wounded soldier burned alive in the chopper when it crashed into a field and exploded.
"The Crew Chief, Greg, his best buddy had multiple chest wounds and was lying on the ground next to him still conscious and able to talk. And he couldn't do anything to help Greg because all his medical supplies had been lost in the explosion. So, the only thing left for Specialist McGrady to do was to watch helplessly, keeping his best buddy company, until he bled to death.
"Because of his wounded leg, he was barely conscious himself as they evacuated him several hours later. He never found out if they were able to recover his buddy's body or not."
Pierson was crying silently. "I didn't know."
"That's right, Pierson, you didn't. And that's why Specialist McGrady said that you wouldn't get it." I wiped my own eyes. "Some things are just too private to become public knowledge, because people just can't understand; they have no point of reference."
When Morton and Gerry met up with us, Morton gave me an aggressive look. "Was he messing with you again?" Pierson wiped his eyes and managed to shake his head in the negative. "What the Fuck happened, then?"
"I grew up." Pierson said quietly and got into the supper line.
***
During supper, Pierson related Sean's story more or less accurately to Morton and Gerry, when Morton asked him how he'd grown up all of a sudden. And I was able to believe that Pierson had actually understood the privacy aspect, also in relation to Gerry. But time would tell.
"I guess war can really fuck you up." was Morton's apt reply. Then he added: "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
Gerry got a not quite mischievous look in his eye, but it was damned close. "Ben already knows."
As I had during the entire meal, I kept my mouth shut. Of course, Morton and Pierson were looking at me, as if I had two heads. Then Morton, without concealing his smirk, said: "Yeah, right."
"No, seriously," Gerry was displaying his usual enthusiasm, but this had an edge to it. "Ben was trained by the French military during the Algerian revolution." And this was so little off the truth, that I didn't say anything, but decided to play along.
"Wouldn't he have to be French?" Morton laughed at the idea.
And since my French passport was such a security blanket for me, I had it with me at all times. So, without saying anything, I undid my field jacket's left breast pocket, right under the tape stating U.S. ARMY, and pulled out my dark-blue booklet. I opened it to pages 2/3, with my description on page 2 and my picture, riveted onto page 3 and a round blue stamp overlapping my picture on the lower right corner and of the page, which read DIRECTION de la POLICE GÉNÉRALE and then on the inside of the circle PRÉFECTURE de POLICE. Not only Morton was surprised.
Gerry grabbed my passport and leafed through it. He found my entry and exit stamps for Germany, Switzerland and Austria. Of course, he could read them, which I couldn't. His eyes became slightly moist. "You've been to the old country." He closed it and handed me back the booklet. "So, was that what Top was talking about?"
I nodded confirmation, but Morton wanted details. "What did he say?"
Gerry answered for me. "I'm supposed to hand carry Ben over to Personnel first thing after breakfast."
"Are they gonna issue you an escort weapon?" Pierson wondered, and my dick twitched at the mention of a firearm.
"Probably not." Morton laughed. "Loughery hasn't done anything, other than being French."
Pierson snickered. "You're gonna feel right at home in the Nam." And if looks could have killed, Gerry's would have struck him down where he sat.