I stand to attention, wobbling slightly beneath the sixty pounds of gear I'm humping.
The poge colonel has a classic granite jaw. I'm sure that the Marine Corps must have a strict examination at the officers' candidate school at Quantico designed to eliminate all officer candidates who lack the granite jaw.
His jungle utilities are razor-creased, starched to the consistency of green armor. He executes a flawless Short Pause, a favorite technique of leaders of men, designed to inflict its victim with fatal insecurity. Having no desire to damage the colonel's self-confidence, I respond with my best Parris Island rendition of I-am-only-an-enlisted-person-I-try-to-be-humble.
"Marine..." The colonel stands ramrod straight. This stance is the Air of Command, intended to intimidate me, despite the fact that I'm a foot taller and outweigh him by fifty pounds. The colonel investigates the underside of my chin. "Marine..." He likes that word. "What is that on your body armor, Marine?"
"Sir?"
The poge colonel stands on tiptoe. For a moment I'm afraid he's going to bite me in the neck. But he only wants to breathe on me. His smile is cold. His skin is too white. "Marine..."
"Sir?"
"I asked you a question."
"You mean this peace button, sir?"
"What is it?"
"A peace symbol, sir..."
I wait patiently while the colonel tries to remember the "Maintaining Interpersonal Relationships with Subordinate Personnel" chapter of his OCS textbook.
The poge colonel continues to breathe all over my face. His breath smells of mint. Marine Corps officers are not allowed to have bad breath, body odor, acne pimples, nor holes in their underwear. Marine Corps officers are not allowed to have anything that has not been issued to them.
The colonel jabs my button with a forefinger, gives me a fairly decent Polished Glare. His blue eyes sparkle. "That's right, son, act innocent. But I know what that button means."
"Yes, sir!"
"It's a ban-the-bomb propaganda button. Admit it!"
"No, sir." I'm in real pain. The man who invented standing at attention obviously never humped any gear.
"Then what does it mean?"
"It's just a symbol for peace, sir."
"Oh, yeah?" He breathes faster, up close now, as though he can smell lies.
"Yes, Colonel, it's just--"
"MARINE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
The poge colonel moves around me, stalks me. "Do you call yourself a Marine?"
"Well..."
"WHAT?"
"Crossed fingers, king's-X. "Yes, sir."
"Now seriously, son..." The colonel begins an excellent Fatherly Approach. "Just tell me who gave you that button. You can level with me. You can trust me. I only want to help you." The poge colonel smiles.
The colonel's smile is funny so I smile, too.
"Where did you get that button, Marine?" The colonel looks hurt. "Don't you love your country, son?"
"Well..."
"Do you believe that the United States should allow the Vietnamese to invade Viet Nam just because they live here?" The poge colonel is struggling to regain his composure. "Do you?"
My shoulders are about to fall off. My legs are falling asleep. "No, sir. We should bomb them back to the Stone Age...sir."
"Confess, Corporal, confess that you want peace."
I give him a Short Pause. "Doesn't the colonel want peace...sir?"
The colonel hesitates. "Son, we've all got to keep our heads until this peace craze blows over. All I have ever asked of my boys is that they obey my orders as they would obey the word of God."
"Is that a negative...sir?"
The poge colonel tries to think of some more inspiring things to say to me, but he has used them all up. So he says, "You can't wear that button, Marine. It's against regulations. Remove it immediately or you will be standing tall before the man."
Somewhere up in Heaven, where the streets are guarded by Marines, Jim Nabors, in his Gomer Pyle uniform, sings: "From the halls of Montezuma...to the shores of Tripoli..."
"MARINE!"
"YES, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
"The Commandant has ordered us to protect freedom by allowing the Vietnamese to live like Americans all they want to. As long as Americans are in Viet Nam the Vietnamese will have the right to express their political convictions without fear of reprisal. So I will say it one more time, Marine, take off that peace button or I will give you a tour of duty in Portsmouth Naval Prison."
I stay at attention.
The poge colonel remains calm. "I am going to cut a new set of orders on you, Corporal. I am personally going to demand that your commanding officer shit-can you to the grunts. Show me your dogtags."
I dig out my dogtags and I tear off the green masking tape around them and the poge colonel writes my name, rank, and serial number into a little green notebook.
"Come with me, Marine," says the poge colonel, putting the little green notebook back into his pocket. "I want to show you something."
I step over to the jeep. The poge colonel pauses for dramatic effect, then pulls a poncho off a lump on the back seat. The lump is a Marine lance corporal in the fetal position. In the lance corporal's neck are punctures--many, many of them.
The poge colonel grins, bares his vampire fangs, takes step toward me.
I punch him in the chest with my wooden bayonet.
He freezes. He looks down at the wooden bayonet. He looks at the deck, then at the sky. Suddenly his wristwatch is very interesting. "I...uh...I've got no more time to waste on this unprofitable encounter...and get a haircut!"
I salute. The poge colonel returns my salute. We hold the salute awkwardly while the colonel says, "Someday, Corporal, when you're a little older, you'll realize how naive--"
The poge colonel's voice breaks on "naive."
I grin. His eyes fall.
Both salutes cut away nicely.
"Good day, Marine," says the poge colonel. Then, armored in the dignity awarded him by Congress, the colonel marches back to his Mighty Mite, climbs in, and drives away with his bloodless lance corporal.
The poge colonel's Mighty Mite lays rubber--after all that talking he doesn't even give me a ride.
"YES, SIR!" I say. "IT IS A GOOD DAY, SIR!"
The war goes on. Bombs fall. Little ones.
An hour later a deuce-and-a-half slams on its brakes.
I climb up into the cab with the driver.
During the bumpy ride back to Phu Bai the driver of the deuce-and-a-half tells me about a mathematical system he has devised which he will use to break the bank in Las Vegas as soon as he gets back to the World.
As the driver talks the sun goes down and I think: Fifty-four days and a wake-up.
I've got forty-nine days and a wake-up left in country when Captain January hands me a piece of paper. Captain January mumbles something about how he hopes I have good luck and then he goes to chow even though it's not chow time.
The piece of paper orders me to report for duty as a rifleman with Delta Company, One-Five, currently based at the Khe Sanh.
I say good-bye to Chili Vendor and Daytona Dave and Mr. Payback and I tell hem that I'm glad to be a grunt because now I won't have to write captions for atrocity photographs they just file away or tell any more lies because there's nothing more the lifers can threaten me with. "What are they going to do--send me to Viet Nam?"
Delta Six cuts Cowboy a huss and I'm assigned to Cowboy's squad as the first fire team leader--the assistant squad leader--until I've got enough field experience to run my own rifle squad.