Getting the Boot at B.M.B

          If memory serves me, it was an afternoon, in the last couple days of May, 69. Delta 4/12 had been pulled back to BMB (Long Binh) for “Stand Down.” I would rather not get into the unfortunate contact earlier in that week that prompted “Higher’s” decision to pull the unit from the field. However, I should explain that men in our platoon had good reason to be depressed, angry and anxious to have some time out of the field.

          After men and ordinance were off loaded from the cattle trucks and when the weapons were cleaned and checked in, Routte, our squad leader, informed us that we needed a “beer.” The squad... well, the three of us still with the unit, headed off down the meandering foot trail that stretched from quarters, through the drainage ditch and on across BMB to the bar. Along the way we were confronted by a lone figure of a neatly dressed soldier walking diagonally to our path. Unfortunately, the fellow timed his pace to catch us as we came up out of the ditch. His clean and crisply starched fatigues were adorned with the mark of a Major. As we ventured within his range, the fellow bellowed out a stern “Halt.” In unison, the three of us locked our scuffed and dusty heels for the Officer. I remember standing there waiting for the fellow to speak, wondering just why the stranger hand chosen to force his “spic and span, OD butt” into our depressed pathetic situation. The fellow growled at us for a while, muttering something about our apparent lack of self-respect, as evident by the state of our uniforms. The tirade continued and eventually he settled on the fact that we were not wearing the correct head gear for BMB. In other words, we had committed the mortal sin of venturing out on an rear echelon escapade wearing floppy jungle hats rather then the required baseball caps.

          I can’t speak for my buddies, but, as I stood there, shoulders pinned back, gut sucked in, watching the “motor mouth” run on the face of the seemingly, self-important fool, several thoughts began to bounce around between my ears. I found myself wanting to wink at either Scott or Routte and then suggest to the Officer that “some of us had been in country for only a few months, most of which had been spent trying to survive in the field and if wearing a baseball type cap was critical to our survival at BMB, then we certainly would try to secure the item at our next opportunity.” However, as I glanced to my side, expressions of pent-up rage on the faces of my fellow squad members prompted alarm. I began to fear that either one of the men would jump the officer and leave him there in a pool of blood from an ear to ear path of a pocketknife. The “jerk” had no idea what these two grunts had been through in the previous two days and his anal retentive obsession with baseball hats at BMB could easily push them over the edge. Needless to say, there were some tense moments as I stood there, waiting (praying) that we would keep our cool and let this high-pants hero of some office in BMB have his fit, step in it, and then get on out of our lives. The three of us just stood there in silent rage while Major “Starchedshorts” chewed on us. Eventually he may have gotten the picture, realizing that he had stumbled into something that was a bit too strange and dangerous for him to handle by himself. Standing in rigid silence, our sweaty faces began to redden and twitch. Fortunately, by that time his ego must have been sufficiently inflated and he decided to move on. I do remember that before he turned to walk away, the officer delivered our “marching orders.” We were to return to our quarters and venture out only if we were wearing the proper headgear for BMB.

          Our tired trio made a retrograde down the path and into the drainage ditch to vent the usual assortment of grunt obscenities and wait for some distance to develop between us and the officer. Soon we were defiantly moving right back up onto the footpath, heading with even greater resolve toward the EM Club, Yes, we were marching under the same floppy jungle hats. I think it was Routte that suggested the officer would probably no last long in the field, in a line company full of “pissed” grunts.

          Eventually the club was at hand. The low interior light from a few yellow bare bulbs seemed a strange contrast to the intense sunlight of the day. As we stepped through the doorway and waited for our eyes to adjust to the change of light, I remember being confronted by the stench of sour beer and sweaty soldiers. We moved over to an empty table. Our boots seemed to click in sticky rhythm as we moved toward our perch. I noticed that floor, benches and tables seemed to have been painted with a substance akin to the coating of fly-paper. I slid into position at the table and found my sweaty forearms and the seat of my fatigues stuck to the bench and table surface. Before the beer began to replace reason, I decided the coating was probably the residue from months of spilled and neglected brew and bacteria left culturing in the reduced light of the bar through the hot Vietnamese seasons.

          I remember it was hard to communicate with my buddies in the loud hum of agitated and partially inebriated GIs Soon, the three of us were fumbling through our pockets in search of enough MPCs to secure a pitcher. Routte collected the crumpled bills and headed off toward the old frowning soldier that was tending the bar. He returned, forthwith. A foam crowned pitcher appeared in front of us, hitting the table with an awkward “thud.” I remember thinking how much the beer in the pitcher looked like urine in the yellow light of the bar. In the heat, condensation made the brew appear to be sweating as profusely as the soldiers in the place. I looked around and then asked about a glass or mug. “To hell with mugs” was Routte’s reply.

          The contents of the pitcher seemed to evaporate as we passed it around, each of us taking our long refreshing turn at its lip. Somewhere in the middle of our second pitcher, I noticed that one of the grunts stuck to the table next to us had removed his jungle boot and he had placed it in the middle of that table. The grunts were emptying the beer from a full pitcher into the boot. It was passed from soldier to soldier with each trying to hold the canvas top of it together while he took a long drink. On that hot afternoon, in that “Den of Debauchery” full of grunts looking for “escape,” the circling “BMB Beer Boot Ritual” extended its circumference. By the time it made it to our table, the crud clogging the vent holes had been loosened by the beer and the contents started to stream out the sides of the unconventional vessel. As we took our swigs from the thing we had to position a finger over each vent to keep the beer from leaking out the sides of the wobbly, unpredictable boot of brew.

          Abruptly, the steady hum of agitated male voices faded. To our surprise, a line of short, overfed Korean female entertainers, wearing ill fitted dresses of yellow and lime green, wiggled and jiggled, single file into the club. As the little troupe, only slightly taller then midgets, took position in the area of the hut that served as a stage, we decided that perhaps our luck was beginning to change. After all, what were the odds that we would stand down at the same time that they would schedule live entertainment at the BMB EM Club?

           As the little ladies took their places, a skinny fellow, probably their manager, began to set up equipment and start their pre-recorded background music. With that, the little lime green ladies began to sway in unison. Soon they were adding hand gestures, short-legged kicks and the noise of their individual high pitched “oriental flavored” chirps and squawks. Early on, their Koreanglish and much of the melody of their chosen song seemed to escape me. The problem seemed to solve itself with the arrival of another pitcher at our table and a few more turns at the liquid. Slowly the noise from the ladies was transformed into something sounding strangely familiar. Before long the music had evolved into an eclectic accumulation of American pop hits from the early 60s. With enough brew, I began to see past the disturbingly strange proportions and short legs of our entertainment. Like the other “love starved” grunts in the joint, I found my attention torn three ways, between the conversation of my buddies, the beer, and the occasional gaze with awakening interest at the blurring troupe of plump female torsos and painted pear shaped faces.

          The noise grew louder. I took a foggy look up from the pitcher to try to find the source of some new amusement in the hut. Soldiers had focused their attention toward the ladies. Some of the men were pointing and laughing. I turned to see what was up. The tall, skinny, somewhat familiar silhouette of a grunt had taken a position between the chirping lime ladies. They were trying to continue their program and he was moving right along with them. As they swayed and turned, gestured and kicked with the rhythm, the lanky lad would follow along in short delay. The afternoon program had turning hilarious. When I turned back to see the expressions on my buddies faces I realized that Routte was the only fellow left at the table with the pitcher and myself. A realization cut through the beer induced fog in my head. Hell! It was Scott up there dancing in the middle of the little song birds.

           There he was, our buddy Scott, getting his kicks; dancing in the line of ladies. Scott was tall and tough as nails. He was as good as any soldier, but like many of us who had been in the field for a while, his fatigues always sort of hung down off of his thin and wiry frame. There he was, out there in the line of little plump jiggling ladies. His eyes were closed and his cloths were flopping and billowing as he moved and shuffled his combat boots to the tunes. He looked like a government issued scarecrow in a garden of screeching little green parakeets.

           Of all the soldiers in the club that afternoon, Scotty had managed the ultimate mental escape from the war. I remember thinking that his body may be up there, rolling and swaying with the ladies... but his mind was surely stateside with his real American girl. The bartender yelled out, “Get off the stage.” Scotty’s eyes remained closed and he did not miss a beat. By that time, the other soldiers in the club shared some empathy with our buddy. They yelled back at the tender, “Leave him alone and let him dance.” The bar tender issued the order for a second time and then for a third. Scotty just kept on dancing. The little ladies seemed only mildly irritated by his presence. They continued the show and Scotty just kept dancing. Again the bar tender yelled for him to get off the stage an again someone in the crowd yelled, “Let him dance, he isn’t hurting anyone!”
Things get a bit hazy now as I try to place some order on the events which transpired from that point in the afternoon. I remember a jeep pulling up outside the club and a couple young, M.P.s came rushing in from the bright sunlight, into the darkened interior, only to be confused in the change of light and the mass of soldiers who crowded between them and the stage. Routte and I made the mistake of trying to talk to the ranking M.P., trying to negotiate for Scotty’s behalf. We succeeded only in getting them and the bar tender angry at us, as well as, as Scott. I remember another vehicles arriving and more M.P.s. With the help of two of them, Scotty eventually relinquished his place in the entertainment line. I remember one of the angry M.P.s got our attention when “Long Binh Jail”entered his angry threats.

           I thought we were about to be arrested when “Top” walked into the Club and took a position in front of the ranking M.P. The old wrinkled fellow never looked so good to us before that afternoon. Delta company’s First Sergeant could seldom be found out in the field and the only time we knew he was part of the unit was when we were moved to a new FSB or back to the rear. I assume the bar tender must have learned which Company Scott, Routte and I we were with and he must have contacted the our Company as well as the M.P.s. Anyway, Top struck a deal with the angry M..P.s and we were ordered to get out of the Club. We could not come back there. As long as we would leave and not come back, they would not arrest us.

          Like three scolded pups, tails between our legs, Scott, Routte and I walked out of the EM Club and back down the path toward quarters.

           Within a week, the three of us were back out in the field with the rest of Delta, the jungle, the leaches and the enemy. One evening, while we were deciding which one would take the first watch, Scott interrupted the issue by saying ” It was a lie, you know.” Routte and I looked back at him to try to figure out what he was talking about. He repeated, “It was a lie,” followed by the statement, “They wouldn’t have put us in LBJ.” “It was a bluff.” “They would have just sent us right back out here.”