Farewell Uncle Ho 77
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.
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Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 77 (Sat., July 8, Sun., July 9)
Aside from the sort of alert during the Six-Day War at the beginning of June, our time at Fort Benjamin Harrison had been uneventful. But both Gerry and I were ready to leave the Midwest.
It was still foggy in the morning but the temperatures were in the mid seventies, as we rolled out of the raked gravel drive of Earl and June's motor court, headed for New York. Friday evening, June had sewn on our SPC 4 rank insignias, and I'd cooked them a Chinese dinner, and we sat around talking, with no one mentioning our pending departure. And the very next morning, they were waving in their friendly manner, as we left, but it was in a way that told me that they'd had to say good-bye to friends too many times before. Saying farewell was a big part of military life. And sometimes it would be for good.
We'd phoned Ju-Long and Gordon on Friday before we left post, to inform them of when we'd arrive. During the conversation, Ju-Long told me that there was a letter, waiting for me from Saigon, from a Mrs. Yvette Duras.
When I asked him to open it, so he could read it to me, he told me to wait while he tore open the envelope. With sort of a disappointed tone, he said that it was in French and we'd have to wait for the two days it would take us to get home. I'd forgotten that I'd written her in French, since June had told us that she'd been the French teacher at the school, where she'd once taught.
To put Gerry and me even more onto the tenterhooks of anticipation, Ju-Long told us that it was sunny and lovely weather on Staten Island, as we spoke. I thought about putting my sunglasses on despite the fog but decided against it, since it would make everything much too dark.
Just before sundown, we'd reached Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. When we talked to Ju-Long from the motel, he asked us if it would be possible to swing by Fort Dix to pick up some of Gordon's stuff, and he would then follow us home. No problem, or so we thought.
We also thought that we knew Fort Dix, after all we'd been there for a little more than nine weeks, including an extended zero week. But we had been in the training section of the huge installation, which not only encompassed McGuire Air Force Base, but as we learned, also bordered on Lakehurst Naval Air Station, the site of the Hindenburg disaster in 1937. When you think you know a place…
It had only taken us a little over two hours from Harrisburg to Wrightstown, but it took us another hour to find Gordon's BEQs, but true to the man's nature, he was waiting patiently out front, soaking up some sun, smoking and talking to a buddy of his; neither were in uniform.
As we drove up, I rolled down the window. "When did you get out?"
"Friday." His smile was very broad and even grew as he came over to us in the car.
His buddy, to whom he'd been talking, leaned on his shoulder, looking into the Mustang. "Yeah, he's already acting like a god-damned civilian." I thought his buddy looked familiar, then I remembered that he was the Drill Sergeant who almost caught me giving Gerry a blowjob on his birthday.
I pulled into the empty space next to Gordon's red Jeep Wagoneer, turned off the engine and got out. Once we were no longer being cooled by the wind coming through the windows while driving, I realized how hot it really was. We were finally out of the cold, rainy pocket of central Indiana. We were back on home turf, close to the ocean, and it was summer.
We got into the Wagoneer for the drive over to the storage unit behind the Transportation Office. We waited in the car, while the transportation sergeant got the keys and showed us the way. Gordon asked me how much we thought we could get onto the backseat.
Of course, my eyes widened at the sight of the plywood box the sergeant was pointing at, which was the size of a coffin. Gordon parked the Wagoneer and got out. "How are we going to do this?"
Gerry, the newly baked Legal Clerk took over. He took the bill of lading and the clipboard from the transportation sergeant. "Bob," He addressed the one-time Drill Sergeant by his first name, which sent a chill down my spine. Didn't know why; it just did. "you take the Wagoneer and Ben over to get the Mustang, while Gordon and I open the crate and check things for damage."
Of course, I remembered going over claims at Legal Clerk School, but I wasn't expecting this from my shy Gerry. Bob jumped into action, getting me into Gordon's red Jeep. As we left, Gerry and Gordon had started unscrewing the lid to the crate.
To break the ice, I offered Bob a cigarette. "Thanks." I lit his then mine. He nodded. "Say, weren't you Trainee of the Cycle, awhile back?"
"How did you remember that?" I laughed and nervously flicked non-existent cigarette ash out the window.
"I'm sure that Dix has never seen a Frenchman spit shine the balls off of a whole company of lazy-ass Americans." I wasn't surprised that the cadre all knew that I was French, but I was surprised that he didn't make any reference to my ethnic background. It would have been hard to explain how good that felt, had someone asked. "But word had it that you'd been in the French Foreign Legion."
I couldn't help but laugh. "And word also had it for awhile that I worked for the CIA, too."
Bob's pleasant features showed concern. So, I explained about the language tests, and how Haruki had told me that the answer sheets were all the same, and how I'd tried the theory by taking the Albanian and Finnish tests. By the time we got to where the Mustang was parked, we were laughing almost too much to drive.
And there it was, that spark of friendship, which could turn a casual acquaintance into a good friend. But that spark wouldn't get a chance to ignite, since Bob and I would probably never see each other again after today. Again, the final farewell was on the horizon in the immediate future. Again, it made me sad, longing for what could have been. Again, I wished that I'd had a chance to say good-bye to Moffett.
***
With both of the vehicles next to the crate at the storage facility, it was fairly fast and easy to get things checked and loaded. Gerry and Gordon did the damage assessment; Bob and I did the loading. All in all, there was nothing missing and very little damage, so little, in fact, that Gordon deemed it not worth filing a claim. The sergeant in charge of the warehouse seemed more than happy that claims forms weren't required on a Sunday.
Gordon drove Bob back to the BEQ, where his car was parked. Bob came over to the Mustang and gave us the tried and trusted military line: "Okay, Guys, take care, and don't let Charlie get ya." alluding to our imminent departure for Vietnam. He then tapped the door, sending us off, dismissing us. Anything more wasn't required; anything more would not have been according to the standard operating procedure for private interaction between military members.
I wondered what playbook was used after the wars, where people referred to 'old Army buddies'. I wondered if Earl had any old Army buddies, and I wondered if June used Yvette's address for anything more than the occasional Christmas card. And I wondered if Gerry and I would ever hear from any of the other forty six men, who went through basic training with us, of course not including our Drill Sergeant in that number.
Speaking of whom, Gordon was coming our way, as he waved again to Bob, who tooted his horn a couple of times in parting. "Ready to go?" I asked and tried to sound casual. Gerry put his hand on my thigh and squeezed, since he knew that I was faking being casual. After all, we did have a backseat full of Gordon and Ju-Long's war souvenirs.
"You Guys wanna follow me?" Gordon looked puzzled when I snorted and snickered.
"Yeah, sorta hoped that you'd get us out of here." Gerry and I laughed again. Gordon still looked puzzled and shook his head. "We have no idea, where we are. So, you'll have to lead the way, Drill Sergeant." The penny must have dropped, since Gordon nodded and smiled as he got into the Wagoneer.
***
Pulling up in front of the house on Fremont Avenue gave me a surge of strength, which had been lacking for both of us for quite awhile. I grabbed my Gerry and pulled him into a long, very passionate kiss. We came up for air, when Gordon knocked on the fogged passenger window. "C'mon, Guys, I want my war souvenirs." He laughed at us trying to hide the hard-ons, as we got out.
"God-damned hip huggers." was my only comment, feeling my face self-ignite.
Ju-Long waved from the driveway. He'd come out through the basement door, next to where Gordon had parked the Wagoneer and was moving in our direction. To get my mind off my dick, I concentrated on something else. Ju-Long seemed to be wearing his prosthesis more frequently. That did it; my cock deflated.
Gerry surprised Ju-Long and Gordon with: "hao bu hao?". I'd taught him how to ask: 'How are you?', along with some other useful Chinese phrases, in return for lessons in basic German.
"Where you're going, you'd better learn: Thế nào là bạn?" Ju-Long laughed and hugged us both.
"Thought you don't understand Chinese." I joked with my arms still around him.
He pulled back and glared. "I don't." I guessed the mild, off-the-cuff remark hadn't come across as even mildly humorous.
***
So far, the highlight of our leave at home in New York was Yvette's letter. She wrote that she was so glad to hear from me. June had already told her that I would be getting in touch. June and Earl's old apartment was vacant at the moment, and she would be happy to save it for us until the first of August. Gordon and Ju-Long, on the other hand, were acting as if they were hiding something from us.
Now, I think that I actually understand how terminally ill patients must feel, when virtually everyone they know takes too much care not mentioning the striped elephant in the room. Hip phrases, like, 'far out', became taboo because they're far too close to 'Far East' for comfort. Gerry and I both found it odd that veterans, like Ju-Long and Gordon would carefully not mention our reporting date. They even avoided mentioning their own plans past mid-July. We guessed that they were afraid of mentioning how being in a war zone was going to change us.