The convoy appeared to be traveling through a corridor. Both sides of the road had a ten-foot high barbed wire fence running alongside. Hundreds of small, straw-roofed huts, about the size of a single room lakeside cabin in the states, stood as far back as they could see. The barbed wire fences made it appear as if the area was either a prison or a refugee center.
Every person they passed appeared to be very old. Some were in front of their huts, sitting on the ground or cooking over open fires. Others simply stood near the fence and watched the parade of buses pass; every one of them was chewing something and spitting a brown liquid onto the ground.
“Those people are all chewing tobacco!” Bill exclaimed.
“That’s not tobacco,” the driver volunteered, “it’s the juice from betel and nuts.”
“What the hell are betel and nuts?” John asked.
“The Areca nut grows wild in the husks of some trees around the country. These people cure the nut and slice it into sections. For chewing, they wrap a few slices in betel leaf and add a lime, cloves or anything else to improve the bitter taste. When taken like that, the stimulant causes a hot sensation in the body and heightened alertness, although the effects vary from person to person. However, most of them mix other shit with it to get high, too.”
“You mean like dope?” Bill asked the driver.
“Yeah, exactly like dope. Most of these people are high all the time. They wouldn’t be able to stand it otherwise.”
“Just look at all those folks by the wire. They remind me of the cows back home, all of them standing along the fence and chewing their cud. Their heads turn as you pass and they keep watching you until you are long gone.”
The driver laughed, “That’s original.”
The convoy approached a tight right turn, and each bus slowed to complete the maneuver. Several groups of villagers were standing at the corner waiting for the traffic to clear. Just then, John grabbed Bill by the arm and pointed out the window. “Bill, take a look at that!”
Speechless, they continued to stare at the sight greeting them.
A group of seven women, each appearing to be close to a hundred years old, was standing on a corner, waving to the buses as they passed. Their wrinkles were deep and wide, their skin dark and shriveled like prunes. It appeared that most were heading home after working in the fields, since they were carrying rakes, hoes, and shovels. Two of them balanced long poles on their shoulders with large bamboo baskets attached to each end. They are wore black nylon pants and oversized shirts, covered with dried mud and stains. All of them wore straw conical hats that helped to shield their faces from the strong rays of the sun, and they were all smiling broadly. Many were toothless or had only a few teeth left in their mouths. All looked as if they had mouths filled with black licorice. Their lips, gums, teeth, and insides of their mouth looked like posters from the Cancer Foundation, warning against the dangers of smoking.
“That’s what happens when you chew those betel nuts all your life,” the driver explained.
Bill and John could only look at each other and shake their heads in disbelief.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaamnnnnn!” John finally said in one long drawn out breath.
Further up the road, young children were everywhere. Most were small boys of pre-school age.
“Hey GI, you souvenir me cigarettes, candy, you numba one,” they called, running along the side of the road to keep up with the buses.
Some of the people on the bus felt sorry for them and began flicking cigarettes through the chicken wire windows. This resulted in several scuffles as each group began to zero in on the tossed tobacco sticks, fighting each other to claim the prizes.
In the background, behind the packs of fighting boys, stood the little girls, not any older than eight years or so. Some held half-naked babies in their arms and others shouted at the fighting youths. A few of them even entered the fracas and began to pull the boys apart, appearing to scold them.
“Why are all the little girls holding babies?” John asked the driver.
“Those little girls help raise the family, cook, and clean around the hut while their parents work in the fields.”
“That’s so sad,” both responded together.
Every human being passed so far on the convoy was either old or very young. There were no teenage boys hanging around on the corners, no young or middle-aged men walking around in the villages.
At another turn, the buses slowed down again. One corner had a small outpost shaped like a triangle. Large bunkers were at each corner of the complex; machine gun barrels poked through several of the gun slits. A twenty-foot high tower and spotlight stood guard in the center of the compound. Loops of barbed wire and walls of sandbags encircled the small base. Overall, about twenty Vietnamese soldiers moved about the compound. It was unlikely that any of them weighed more than a hundred pounds.
“Look at those guys; they’re only kids.”
“Shit, Bill, we’re not much older ourselves.”
“Yeah, but we can put in our year and go home. These poor guys probably live up the road apiece and will have to continue fighting this war long after we’re gone.”
“I guess you’re right, Bill. I just can’t imagine having to fight a war in my own neighborhood back home. It’s got to be hard keeping focused on a day-to-day basis when you don’t know if your property will still be there, or if your family is okay after a firefight. What a life of hell!”
Five minutes later, the bus made a left turn and slowed to a crawl as it approached a gate straddling the road. It reminded the young soldiers of Fort Apache, as portrayed in old western movies. A sign over the gate read, “Welcome to the 90th Replacement Battalion - Long Binh”.
~~~~~
CHAPTER THREE
As the buses unloaded, a trim and muscular Army Captain stood on a platform, patiently waiting for the group to get into some type of military formation. His folded arms rested against his chest, allowing his bulging biceps to inflate the end of his rolled up fatigue jacket sleeves. He continued to shift his two-hundred pound, rock solid frame from one foot to the other, appearing both impatient and nervous. His deep tan and unblemished complexion accented his straw- colored hair and blue eyes. His green jungle fatigues were heavily starched and sharply creased, fitting like an outer skin – a real candidate for a U.S. Army recruiting poster! After five minutes, he turned on the microphone and began to speak.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he began. “I’m Captain Richards, and I’d like to welcome all of you to the 90th Replacement Battalion. As I call out your name, fall out into the building behind me. There, you will exchange your greenbacks for Military Payment Certificates (MPC), which is the currency used by Americans in this country. Greenbacks are illegal in Vietnam, and possession of any after you clear this area is a court martial offense. After completing your money transfer, find an empty bunk in one of these six barracks.” He pointed out the buildings across the street and behind the formation.
“Tomorrow there will be shipping formations at 0800, noon and 1600 hours. These readings are mandatory and everyone must attend. Those of you called out tomorrow will move on to your new units. The rest of you staying behind will work on projects around the center. Until that time, you will be on your own and free to use all the facilities available to you. Are there any questions?” Scanning the formation, there are no hands raised. “Okay, now listen up for your name.”
The 90th Replacement Battalion was a large camp, measuring two miles long by one-half mile wide. Bunkers alternated with towers on the perimeter. To their front were varied configurations of razor sharp barbed wire, stretching out for at least five-hundred feet. The six-foot high protective barrier resembled tangled spools of lethal thread. The small flares interspaced throughout awaited combustion when the engaged trip wire pins were pulled from the device, illuminating the immediate area in the dark of the night. Deadly claymore mines, positioned randomly around the perimeter served as a first line of defense
. Controlled remotely, detonators are accessible within each bunker; two quick squeezes on the "clacker” will blow the mines. Small metal cans full of loose stones bobbed in the wind; a sudden pull on the wire caused the cans to clang out a warning to the bunker guards.
The barracks were single-story, green buildings and closely resembled their cousin buildings in the states. There was, however, one exception – no glass windows - just like in the buses. Instead, mosquito netting covered each opening. In the event of a rocket or mortar attack, these openings would provide additional exits for quickly vacating the building. The roof overhung sufficiently to keep rain from coming through the net windows.
John stood waiting for Bill in the shade of a palm tree, just outside the money-changing building. The late afternoon sun hung low in the royal blue sky but was still strong enough to make standing outside of a shaded area uncomfortable. When Bill finally exited, the two of them proceeded through the ninety-five degree heat toward the first barracks.
They entered and luckily located two beds, side by side, at the far end near the back door. The two friends tossed their duffel bags onto the bare mattresses and flopped down beside them.
“Well, John, what are we going to do now?”
“You feel up for a walk to scout this place out?”
“Lead the way.” Bill worked his way out of the bed and onto the dirty plywood floor.
They exited the building and walked down the four steps leading to the road, stopping briefly to look over the lay of the land.
“Let’s find out why all those people are hanging around in the street.” John suggested, pointing in that direction.
They walked up the road and came upon a large purple building - the sign on the door read, ‘Alice’s Restaurant’- a reference to singer Arlo Guthrie’s 1967 hit folk song.
“Will you take a look at this?” John asked excitedly. Latching onto Bill’s arm, he pulled him toward the building. “It’s a goddamn restaurant, right here in the middle of a war zone. Let’s go inside and check this out.”
“Okay, I’ve got your back.”
Once inside, they found the restaurant divided into three sections: a dining room, a game room, and a bar. They hesitated for a moment in the doorway taking it all in.
“How about getting something to eat?” Bill asked. Patting his stomach, he continued, “I’m starved!”
“Cool. I’m kind of hungry too.”
They sat at a table in the middle of the dining room; a young Vietnamese girl quickly offered them menus. She was about four and a half feet tall, with long, flowing, silky black hair. She wore black silk pajama bottoms under a knee-length powder blue dress; slits extended on both sides from her hips down. She was so tiny that she couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. She stood by the table with an order pad and pencil in hand, smiling politely, awaiting their order.
Both quickly scanned over the single page menu framed in black leather and covered with clear plastic. Items listed were hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, barbecued chicken, coleslaw, ice-cold soda, and beer.
It only took a few seconds before they were ready to order.
“I’ll have a hamburger and fries.” John said, handing the menu back to the server.
“I’ll have the same,” Bill chimed in.
“What do you want on your burgers? We have tomato, onion, ketchup, and mustard.”
”Everything for me, please.”
“Me too,” Bill added.
“What would you like to drink?”
“What kind of beer do you have?”
“Falstaff and Black Label is all we have.”
“Ewww!” The men responded with sour expressions on their faces.
The server saw that neither of them was happy with the selections. “I’m sorry, but this is all we have,” she apologized
John pondered over the choices. “I never tried Falstaff beer, so I guess I’ll try one of them.”
“A beer is a beer, and I guess we shouldn’t be fussy. Make it two of them there Falstaff’s.” Bill raised two fingers into the air.
“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute with your beer, but the food will take a little longer.” She left to take the order to the kitchen. Her waist-length hair waved at them with each step, swinging gently from side to side.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Bill.”
“What did I do now?” Bill frowned, looking confused.
“Did you hear that chick talk? You were born and raised in the states, and this Vietnamese girl speaks better American than you do.”
“Shit, you call that American? I speak excellent American and her accent isn’t anything close to mine.” They both laughed.
The atmosphere in the restaurant was a refreshing change. It was so peaceful; a person would find it difficult to believe a war was even going on outside the perimeter.
As they might have expected, the décor inside of Alice’s Restaurant catered to the peace-loving hippie movement. Posters of rock stars and the concert at Woodstock hung from the dirty white pine walls. Black neon lights helped to enhance the psychedelic posters and made the bright colors stand out. Gold - colored beads hung in the doorways and crackled like pebbles dropping onto the cement floor when someone passed through them. A strong smell of incense permeated the air; several chimneys of smoke climbed lazily to the dimly-lit ceiling at various locations throughout the building. The aroma was somewhat pleasant, and did an excellent job of covering the stench of cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. A jukebox played a variety of music, changing periodically from hard rock to soul music and even an occasional country western song.
Suddenly, something interesting caught John’s eye. “Bill, there are slot machines in the next room!”
“Wow, I’ve never played one before.”
“Neither have I. Let’s go and try one of them before the food gets here.”
They jumped up and hurried over to the bank of nickel machines. Once there, neither of them had an idea of how to load their paper money into the machines because there was only a coin slot available. The new military payment certificates were all in paper, including the denominations less than a dollar.
A nearby player observed their dilemma and volunteered, “Go over to the cashier window. They’ll change your monopoly money for tokens.”
“Thanks!” Both soldiers replied in unison and crossed the floor toward the cashier window.
They exchanged a five-dollar MPC note for one-hundred nickel tokens and walked up to one of the ten machines. Playing three tokens a pull and winning a few here and there, they were only able to play on the machine seven minutes before losing all their coins. Disappointed, they returned to the restaurant table to find their food and beers waiting.
It was twilight outside when they exited the restaurant. Dim lights, hanging from the front of each building enabled them to see in the fast-approaching darkness.
Further up the road, the sound of music, cheering, and loud whistling made them curious enough to investigate. After pressing through the crowd, to their amazement, they found a seven-member band performing on a stage. Three female dancers were half-naked and slowly removing the rest of their outfits. The surrounding bleachers overflowed with cheering soldiers; most were on their feet and roaring their approval.
“Oh my God,” Bill hollered above the noise. His mouth opened wide and his jaw dropped to his chest, exposing rows of pearl white filling-free teeth. His mouth moved up and down, trying to speak words, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth again and swallowed hard. “Come on, Polack, let’s go find us a seat,” Bill finally managed to spit out in between his heavy breathing.
There were no seats available anywhere so the two of them migrated to an area between the stage and bleachers, joining other excited youths that were tightly packed into the small, crowded space.
“Do you believe this?” Bill asked. “This sure is the first time I’ve ever seen anything like this.”
“You mean seeing the half
naked strippers or the live band?” John joked.
“I’ve never seen a naked lady in person before.”
“So what’s the big deal? These Asian girls aren’t shit. I’ve seen guys in Basic Training with bigger tits.”
“I did too, but they didn’t affect me the same way. How often will we be able to see something like this?”
“Now, how in the fuck am I supposed to know that?”
Bill was unable to respond. He stood rock-solid, hypnotized by the strip tease taking place upon the stage. The crowd in front of the stage tightened up and pulsated forward as more men arrived and tried to force their way in for a better view of the show.
Pandemonium broke out when one of the girls was completely naked. The audience erupted in catcalls, whistling, waving fists into the air, clapping hands, and whooping it up, the bleachers sounding as if they were going to collapse from the impact of hundreds of feet stomping loudly on the wood boards.
When the other two girls were also naked, the three of them began to dance wildly, gyrating in different directions and moving from one side of the stage to the other. Each of them made obscene gestures and teased the audience. After a full minute of individual flaunting, they all returned to center stage, slowly arching backwards and pumping their hips to the beat of the wild song. There was nothing left to the imagination now and many in the audience were freaking out; some soldiers had to restrain their friends in order to prevent them from rushing the stage and grappling the girls.
The band had written this wild song; none of the Americans had ever heard it before. The rhythm was contagious and sounded like something out of a King Kong movie, inducing the girls to gyrate and work themselves into a sexual frenzy. Most of the men in the audience enjoyed this new sound, finding it difficult to watch the show without gyrating to the beat themselves.
When the number finally ended, the girls quickly dashed off stage, and entered a portable dressing room. The musicians set their instruments to the side and joined the women in the small room. The audience was still in a high state of excitement and now realizing that the concert was over, began to clap their hands and chant for an encore. Several minutes elapsed and not one person had left the area; the chanting and clapping continued in hopes of convincing the band to return for one last song.
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 3