Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  “I’ll be going back to the World soon,” I lamented to Landell, “so I don’t want to catch anything from these massage girls. How did you stay clap-free the last time you were here?”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked in disbelief. “Prostitution is such a big business here that the US military requires each girl be tested once a week. They even carry an identification card to prove they’re healthy. It’s the Army’s way of giving prostitution a stamp of approval.” That suited me just fine.

  After checking into adjoining hotel rooms we headed for Susie’s Bath House. The place looked like an exotic pleasure palace from a Hollywood movie. After we entered we were served complimentary cocktails and seated in front of a closed curtain. The house lights were dimmed as the curtain opened, revealing thirty beautiful girls behind a large window. They were dressed like high school cheerleaders, each with a numbered tag on her lapel. Sitting on blue velvet covered bleachers; they smiled coyly and crossed their legs several times. A few arched their backs to show off their physique, while others slowly rotated from side to side. It was a scene that could setback the women’s liberation movement by 100 years, but it made me feel like a kid outside a candy store. It was all I could do not to press my face against the glass.

  Landell spotted Uwe and immediately called her number. When she appeared from behind the curtain they both howled with delight and went directly back to the hotel, bypassing the customary “get to know each other” bath and massage. My decision was not so easy. The choices were so overwhelming I drifted from girl to girl. Finally, the manager politely asked me to make a selection or leave. Since I was unable to choose, I called out number 21—my age.

  A fragrant, slender young girl with soft features, almond eyes, and long black hair appeared. Her name was Molly. She led me to a cubicle furnished with a massage table and a bathtub large enough for two people. The floor had thick red carpeting and the walls were etched sheet-plastic through which shadows could barely be seen. Soft music played throughout the building and the muffled laughter of other patrons added to the peaceful atmosphere. The tranquil setting was worlds apart from the distractions of the whorehouses I had visited in Vietnam.

  Molly’s experienced hands undressed me in seconds, causing me to get an erection so fast that I thought it would hit me in the face. As I climbed into the tub, she put her hair up and stripped down to a bikini bathing suit. She ignored my aroused condition and expertly washed every crevice and appendage on my body.

  The bath was followed by an intense fifteen-minute massage that left me incredibly relaxed—but more stimulated than ever. The cure for the sexual agony she so expertly induced cost extra, which was all part of the bath house strategy. With my moral resistance turned to putty, I relinquished $200.00 to keep her for the next five days. When Molly and I got back to my hotel room, I was so horny I nearly tore her clothes off. Our lovemaking was intense, but in my zealousness it lasted all of two minutes. Her sensual passion made me feel fantastic and we happily indulged with more of the same each night before turning in.

  The next day, Molly and I got together with Landell and Uwe to see the sites. There were many places to visit around Bangkok and the cheapest way to do it was to rent a taxi for the week. The most reliable cab drivers worked out of the hotel and the girls knew most of them. They recommended a cabby known as Big Sam. Oversized by Asian standards, Big Sam was a friendly man with a perpetually smiling face. Initially I was suspicious when he demanded his $100.00 fee in advance, figuring that he would take my money and disappear. However, my confidence was quickly established. Big Sam proved to be more than just a chauffeur; he was also our financial advisor. Everywhere that first day he made sure we paid a fair price for souvenirs and steered us clear of beggars and shady street vendors.

  During the day we toured historical sights, went on boat rides, took countryside drives, and visited local attractions. At night it was bar hopping and dancing, or watching American movies with subtitles. A few times Big Sam took us to secluded restaurants to meet Uwe’s and Molly’s friends. An added bonus was that no matter where we were or what we did, Sam, Molly and Uwe rarely spoke in their native tongue—a thoughtful gesture that allowed Landell and I to be a part of everything that was going on. Their overall consideration and professionalism not only made us feel special, but also helped loosen my purse strings.

  I arrived in Bangkok with $500.00 but it was almost gone after just five days. With no intention of lowering my extravagance for the rest of my stay, I contacted the local Red Cross office and wired home for an extra $100.00. The Red Cross told my parents I needed the money for food and shelter. My parents believed them. Twelve hours later the money arrived and I gladly squandered it on Molly just like before.

  My week in Bangkok was a vacation I would never forget. Now I knew why Landell returned for a second time. The mood of the Thai people contrasted so starkly with their Vietnamese counterparts because nothing hung over them to choke their spirit. There was no anguish over loved ones away at war, no flood of refugees, and no threat of terrorism. Their economy was thriving, Americans were well liked, and the government was stable. As a result, I left Bangkok with a renewed respect for Asian people.

  There was no sorrow or emotional attachment when the time came for Molly and me to part, even though I felt our relationship was a little more than just a successful business arrangement. But any GI who experienced a similar furlough would undoubtedly feel the same. At any rate, when I returned to Vietnam I recommended Bangkok to future R & R travelers. I also made it clear that their stay would not be complete without a visit to Susie’s Bath House, and a massage from number 21…Molly.

  “The Army fucked-up and promoted you in spite of yourself.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Countdown to Freedom

  My return to Vietnam from Bangkok was far less depressing than my previous return from R & R in Hawaii, especially since my tour of duty has been whittled down to just twenty-five days. Now it would be easy to focus beyond the war all the way to home. There was also a rumor that short-timer’s were getting an early-out by up to ten days. The Army already used early releases before Christmas as a gimmick to bolster public support, so if the rumor is true, it was one I heartily endorsed.

  I arrived at Camp Evans with my attitude refreshed, but I was still in the Army and Top Boyce was right there to remind me. As usual, he was pissed off. This time it was because I had stretched the normal ten days of vacation and travel time into sixteen ghost days.

  “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said sarcastically. “The prodigal NCO returns. I’ve been waiting for you, Staff Sergeant Wiknik.”

  “Staff Sergeant? Me?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “That’s right. The Army fucked-up and promoted you in spite of yourself. That means you can spend the rest of your tour as Lieutenant Cramer’s Platoon Sergeant.”

  That hit me like a ton of bricks. “Wait a minute, Top! What happened to Wakefield?”

  “He went home on emergency leave, so we won’t be seeing him again. Now get your shit packed because you’re going back to the field tomorrow.”

  “Please don’t make me go,” I moaned, not sure if he was serious about sending me out again. “I’d be no good in the field anymore. I’ve lost my edge. My desire to fight is gone. I’m just too short for that shit. Can’t you find work for me here in the rear? I’ll do anything.”

  He studied me for a few moments before smiling slyly. “I hate to see a grown man beg, so I’ll make an exception in your case. You can stay and work for me, but if I hear so much as a whimper about any job you’re given, your ass goes back to the field if I have to drag you there myself.”

  “Okay, Top,” I grinned ambitiously. “Just tell me what you want me to do?”

  He did not answer right away, as if relishing the moment. Then he leaned in close to emphasize my new duties. “Each morning, it will be your responsibility to make sure everyone falls out for roll-call. After breakfast, you�
��ll organize a litter clean-up of the entire battalion area. That means all around the chopper pad and the bunker line. You will also set up the mess hall duty rosters and schedule all able-bodied personnel for various details that come from brigade headquarters.”

  “I can handle all that,” I nodded, thinking he was finished. Man, I have it made, I thought to myself. Piece of cake.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” he smirked. “Your most important job will be to personally clean and maintain the battalion latrines. That means both the enlisted men’s and the officer’s. Everyone deserves a pleasant place to shit, so I expect you to make those toilets something to be proud of. You got any questions?”

  “No, Top,” I answered dejectedly. I was relieved to be staying in the rear, but was unsure of what I had gotten myself into. I did find it rather ironic that I arrived in Vietnam burning shit and now I would leave burning shit. At least it’s safer than being shot at.

  The duty rosters and litter pick-up required only token effort, but the latrines were a different story. The buildings were in horrendous condition. No one had cleaned or repaired anything in nearly a month. The shit buckets were overflowing, newspapers and magazines were scattered on the floors, window screens were torn, and several had missing toilet seats.

  The repairs took several days because the needed materials were not readily available, forcing me to commandeer items from different latrines around Camp Evans. I must have looked especially impressive lugging around stolen toilet seats. I also tore boards and screens off vacant hooches and borrowed the latest magazines from the mobile library on its weekly visit.

  After completing the repairs, I easily fell into a daily routine and found that life as a shit burner was not half-bad. My nights were free, giving me plenty of time to spend with Silig. However, he was not as optimistic about the future as I was. Silig’s wounds were nearly healed, which meant he would soon return to the field, and he was not looking forward to it.

  “I’ve got forty days left,” Silig lamented, “but that doesn’t make me short enough to stay in the rear. I guess I can deal with going back out to the field, but I hate the idea of being with Cramer again. It was his fault Siner and I got wounded. If Cramer does one more stupid thing, I think I’ll shoot him myself!”

  “Don’t get too radical,” I laughed, brushing aside his idle threat. “Look at the bright side, with Wakefield gone you’ll be the new Platoon Sergeant. That will give you a role in the decision-making.”

  “Maybe,” he grumbled. “I just wish you and Siner were there to help.”

  “Let’s get a beer,” I said, trying not to be reminded of Siner’s departure and how I abandoned the platoon. “I’m sick of hearing about Cramer.”

  “Yeah,” Silig muttered. “Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin.’”

  As each day clicked by, Top continued searching for the ultimate revenge job before I would slip from his grasp forever. To my dismay, his perseverance paid off.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, waving a typed form in my face. “This is an authorization to release a GI prisoner to your custody. I want you to fly down to Da Nang and escort him back to Camp Evans for a court martial hearing.”

  “Uh…Ok…What did he do?” I stammered, wondering if the prisoner was a harmless nutcase or a hardcore NCO murderer. “Do I know this guy?”

  “His name is Private Leroy Clifton and he’s been AWOL for almost a year. The dumb shit was living with the Vietnamese when the Marines caught him. They’ve got him locked up at the 524th Quartermaster Depot.”

  “Why don’t the MPs just bring him back?” I asked.

  “Because,” Top announced with a spiteful grin, “as a Staff Sergeant this is the kind of job you’re getting paid to perform. Now get over to the supply shed and sign out a .45 pistol and a set of handcuffs. I expect you back here with Clifton by noon tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I nodded confidently. “See you tomorrow.”

  The task sounded easy enough. I imagined that Private Clifton was a passive soldier who became emotionally attached to the Vietnamese and stayed with them to help rebuild their lives. Or, he went AWOL to escape the war but got tired of hiding and was now ready to accept his punishment. Whatever his story was, I just figured Clifton was a hapless slob caught in military red tape and that my escorting him back was just a formality.

  Late that afternoon, I arrived at the 524th Quartermaster Depot in the center of the sprawling Da Nang air base. The Marine compound, with only eight hooches, two supply sheds, a wooden headquarters building, and a small mess hall, was tiny compared to the surrounding military city. A dirt driveway circled behind the hooches to a motor pool where several jeeps and large trucks were parked. I thought it was odd that there were no bunkers or fighting positions.

  When I walked into the office I barely got the chance to announce myself when a strangely exuberant 2nd Lieutenant greeted me. He acted so giddy that he never noticed my failure to salute. Perhaps the .45 slung low on my hip and the handcuffs hanging from my belt made him think I was a tough guy who commanded unquestioned respect.

  “Hi ya, Sarge,” he said with a silly grin. “I’m Lieutenant Butch Reinholtz. Are you here for Clifton?”

  “That’s right,” I nodded officially, trying to act the part of a bounty hunter. “I plan on us leaving first thing in the morning. Now, can I see him?”

  “Sure, this way,” he pointed as we started walking. Then he proudly boasted, “This is my first command.”

  “Is that so?” I remarked, trying not to laugh at the announcement while glancing at his pressed fatigues and flattop haircut. “I would have never guessed.”

  “Yup, this compound is my responsibility.”

  “It must be tough running things around here,” I added, wondering if Reinholtz just arrived in-country that morning. “Just what does your outfit do?”

  “We’re a housing unit for Marines who work on the air base. We’ve got truckers, freight handlers, communication operators, cooks, all kinds of people.”

  “So why do you have a jail?”

  “It’s not really a jail. It’s just a temporary lockup for troublemakers and criminals.”

  “Criminals?” I asked sarcastically. “Are you telling me that you’ve already judged Clifton and found him guilty?” Reinholtz was obviously embarrassed by the question, but did not respond.

  When we turned the corner, the sight of their lockup shocked me. It was a metal freight container with the words “The Big House” neatly painted above the door. Steel bars were welded across rough-cut window openings and a huge padlock held the door shut. The only comfort it offered was the shaded location; otherwise, the daytime temperatures inside would have exceeded human limit. I peered in the shadowy box for a closer look, only to see a set of white teeth, flared nostrils, and a pair of eyes that glared back. Private Clifton was the biggest black man I had ever seen.

  “I figure dey send some honkie to fetch me, but not someone as scrawny as you be,” Clifton laughed as he sauntered to the window. “I guess da Army be runnin’ outta assholes who wanna die. I is goin’ tell you now, as soon as we leave here, I gonna choke you wif you handcuffs then shoot you wif you weapon.”

  Try as I did, I could not swallow the giant lump stuck in my throat. “Shit, I’m in trouble,” I thought to myself. “Clifton is not some poor slob regretting a bad decision about going AWOL; he’s a hardcore outlaw with nothing to lose.” I knew enough to know that if he even remotely suspected I was afraid of him, I would be as good as dead. I had to do something quickly so he would think twice before trying to kill me. That’s when I dug deep for one last absurd performance.

  “Heh, heh, heh,” I cackled with a demonic stare. “Go ahead you piece of shit, help me save the Army the aggravation of dealing with you.” Then I eased the .45 pistol from the holster and caressed it. “Look here, boy, I’ve killed plenty of Gooks during my tour, but no niggers. If you fuck with me, you’ll be my first. Heh…heh…heh.”

&n
bsp; Clifton’s eyes narrowed and he slowly backed off to sit silently in the corner. I gave him a death scowl then briskly walked away with Lieutenant Reinholtz following close behind.

  “Sergeant?” he asked in disbelief. “You wouldn’t really shoot him, would you?”

  “You better god-damn believe I’ll shoot him!” I shouted for Clifton to hear. “I’m not going to let some stupid nigger fuck up my record. He can go back to Camp Evans under his own power or in a body bag. The choice is his.”

  The Lieutenant stopped, unsure of what to do. I kept walking without looking back. Once I was out of sight I leaned against a tree, trembling from head to toe at the thought that this was probably my last day on earth. I was lamenting my predicament and cursing Top under my breath when the company clerk approached.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant,” he began timidly. “Do you need a bunk for the night?”

  I nodded yes, looking away to hide my fear. As we walked toward the NCO hooch the clerk kept looking at me. “Excuse me again, but do you mind if I ask how old you are? I mean, you look really young to be a Staff Sergeant. Did you have a high-ranking relative help to get you promoted?”

  “I’m twenty-one,” I answered, half-laughing and half-thinking that I might not make it to twenty-two. “I’ve got no one looking out for me and this assignment proves it.”

  “No shit? You’re only twenty-one? Man, it’s hard enough just to make Corporal in the Marines. You must be one tough bastard.”

  “I’m not so tough. I’ve just been lucky,” I remarked off-handedly. “Rank sometimes comes easier in the infantry.”