I decided that I needed to dispose of the picture in a way that would prevent anyone else, including myself, from seeing it again. My brain quickly conceived of a plan to remove the picture from existence permanently. I looked in the envelope once more . . . you know . . . to make sure the picture was still in there (stupid hormones), checked my pockets, and then hightailed it out of the tent.
I was at a sprint by the time I was three steps out the door. People looked at me with concern at first. They thought that maybe I was running to a post to repel attackers or something. When my destination became apparent to them, the jokes about mess hall food proceeded. I made it to the latrine in record time and closed the door behind me, thankful that it was empty.
The latrine was really just an outhouse, so there was no way I could flush the picture. I had other plans to deal with it instead. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the instrument of the picture’s destruction: a pack of matches. I removed the picture from the envelope, looked at it again . . . you know . . . to make certain it was the right picture (seriously, those hormones get annoying), and then struck the match and lit the picture on fire. I then dropped the picture into the latrine and prepared to walk away.
With my level of education and intelligence, I can tell you precisely what happens in the process of decomposing human waste. I can tell you exactly what happens when the byproducts of that process come into contact with the chemical combustion known as fire. I can even write out the chemical equation involved in the process. However, that is all theory. I’m really good at theory. What I’m not always good at is application. This was a case where “intelligence” and “knowledge” were not exactly the same thing. Because they weren’t the same thing, I never thought of what might occur when a flaming picture is dropped into a hole filled with human waste. You never have to be taught that lesson more than once.
The explosion sounded comparable to the ones that I’d heard during the bombing run in the valley. The entire latrine blew up in a fireball that would have done any Hollywood filmmaker proud. I received the privilege of experiencing the miracle of flight without wings. I would have settled for the experience of landing without a painful thud. I flew a good twenty or thirty yards away from the latrine with the back of my uniform on fire, looking like a human comet. An incredibly stinky human comet. I turned the hard landing into a roll. It did absolutely nothing to cushion the landing, but it did at least put out the fire on my uniform. I lay there for a moment with the breath knocked out of me trying to figure out what the odd noises coming from all around me were. Once I was able to breathe again I opened my eyes and looked to my left and right. That was when I realized that the odd noises I was hearing were the contents of the latrine returning back to Earth after their own flight.
Korika, I hope you understand that this is why I turned away from you without speaking when I saw you years later. Sorry. Some associations just never go away in your mind.
I heard several people yelling at me to see if I was all right. I gave a weak thumbs-up, and they all stayed where they were. It took me some time, but I finally surmised that they were waiting for the literal shit storm (sorry, Mom) to end before they came to get me. Eventually, what had went down and then up, came back down again. Several people started to move toward me, then they abruptly retreated. They returned a couple of minutes later wearing gas masks and protective gloves before approaching me. They picked me up and carried me to the medic tent. The medic took one look at me (and one whiff of me) and ordered them to set me outside of the tent. He donned his own gas mask and protective gloves before coming outside to check on me. He began tending to my wounds while others did their best to wash me off.
It turned out that I had some mild burns on my back and buttocks from the explosion. After washing me off as best as they could, the masked soldiers carried me into the tent where I was ordered to stay and rest on my stomach overnight. I was ordered, not asked, to strip down, which I did with a great deal of my now-legendary shyness. I then lay on my stomach on a cot, and, after some creams were applied to the burns, a light cotton sheet was placed over me.
I lay there the rest of the day, scared to death of what was going to be done to me. For goodness sakes, I blew up the latrine! I don’t know if there is an actual charge in the Uniform Code of Military Justice for destruction of a bathroom facility, but I’m sure that something in there applies. It is one of the moments of my life that makes me fantasize about having a time machine so I could take it back . . . partly because of the danger in what I did but largely because burns on your buttocks really hurt! I was given a reprieve, though, when the medic came in and told me that military intelligence thought that the incident might have been an example of enemy sabotage. Seriously? How could they have come to that conclusion? Did they interrogate a prisoner that said they were planning to bring this war to an abrupt end by blowing up our crappers? Could I please see the transcript of that interview?
After my initial disbelief, I realized that this was my salvation. If the brass thought that the exploding latrine was a result of enemy action, then I wouldn’t have to face charges for it. This was my ticket out of trouble. Of course, my conscience kept telling me (in my mother’s voice) that I should tell the truth. I couldn’t tell my conscience to shut up. In my mind, that would have been like telling my mother to shut up, and I like to think that I have a little more respect than that. So instead, I did the next best thing: I delayed. I told my conscience that I would tell the truth . . . someday. That seemed to settle my conscience, and I remained silent. See, Conscience, I didn’t lie. And now that the statute of limitations has run out, I don’t have to worry about visiting the stockade either. Everyone’s happy . . . except those poor guys that had to build a new latrine.
I fell asleep that night with a certain level of peacefulness and a snore strip provided by the medic. When I woke up the next morning, I found two gifts and a note sitting next to the cot. I picked up the note and read it. One gift is for you, the other gift is for us. I looked at the items on the ground. One was a donut pillow, the other was a can of body spray. The note was signed by Boom. Boom, if it matters to you now, it made me smile.
How do you say Whiskey Tango Foxtrot in Japanese?
җ
The Great Latrine Sabotage kept the camp talking for several days, and it surprised me to discover that they weren’t making fun of me in the process . . . exclusively. There were some jokes about my burned rear end. That’s no surprise. I made a few of them. Someone also set off a firecracker outside the first time I made use of the new latrine. I admit to falling off of the seat, but I managed not to fall out of the door. Of course, it didn’t exactly shock me when I found the burnt remnants of the old toilet seat mounted above my bunk with a Purple Heart painted on it. I actually found the Purple Heart a nice touch. However, most of the discussion was about preventing another possible sabotage. That largely resulted in beefing up the perimeter security with new razor wire, digging new trenches, and increasing the number of night sentries. Sorry guys. I hope you understand.
I found myself volunteering for sentry duty on a fairly regular basis. I had begun to appreciate the quiet time and the opportunity it gave me to think. It also gave me a chance to make use of the night vision gear a lot. After my run-in with the stray dogs when I first arrived, I had come to appreciate the use of the night vision gear a lot. If I’d had this type of equipment when I was a kid, I could’ve ruled the world. There wouldn’t have been a single person on the planet that could have beaten me at hide-and-seek. I could have snuck out of my house and back in again without ever being caught . . . um . . . not that I ever did that kind of thing, Mom . . . really. I began reading the tech manuals on all of the different night vision gear that we had available. It was excessively boring reading, but it gave me something to focus on. My only other option would have been to write letters home, and I hadn’t done that since I’d been launched into orbit from an
outhouse. I just couldn’t figure out how to explain that one to the folks, so I didn’t try. On the next patrol, I was picked to man the listening post for the second shift. When I arrived, the first shift informed me that the night vision goggles had malfunctioned and were useless. Everyone was impressed when I returned the next morning with fully functional goggles and a small essay on the nocturnal bird life in that region of Korea (nobody read it, but they were certainly surprised).
Because of my newfound expertise in the field of night vision technology, the Professor asked me to join him and a few NCOs for a briefing in the mess tent on some new technology that we were going to be field testing. He told me that a civilian representative for the Japanese company supplying the gear would be there to answer questions and demonstrate the gear, and he wanted my opinions and questions. Yes, I will admit that I was very happy. It was kind of like being the teacher’s pet again. Everybody likes to knock teacher’s pets, but those are usually people who have never been one. It’s really great. It makes a person feel special, and I am special. My mommy told me so.
A slight wardrobe malfunction caused me to be late to the briefing. If anyone from the army is reading this, I hope you realize that button flies might be more serviceable than zippers, but when one of those buttons pops off, and they will pop off, it creates a bit more of a breeze than some of us are comfortable with. So after sewing on a new button to close the barn door (OK, after paying someone else to sew on a button; I can’t sew), I rushed to the mess tent, where the briefing was taking place. I should know better than to rush. Nothing good ever happens when I rush. This was no exception.
I flung open the door and ran to where I thought a good spot would be to listen and see. Unfortunately, the tables had been rearranged for the purposes of the briefing. Rather than running toward a seat, I plowed into one of the tables. This created a chain reaction of collapses that sent night vision goggles flying, NCOs and officers tumbling, and a table of donuts brought by the tech rep crashing to the floor. I guess I should mention that I never remained a teacher’s pet for long. I began apologizing profusely and attempted to rescue the donuts. Some were beyond help, and I put them out of their misery with my digestive system. I didn’t try to help any of the soldiers up, because I feared what they would do if I reached my hand out to help them. I had just replaced the last table when the tech rep looked up at me and screamed.
There was something about the scream that was familiar. The Japanese oath that she spat out sounded remarkably familiar as well. I looked up at her and tried to place where we had met. She was wearing an olive drab uniform with no insignia except for her company’s logo and a name tape that read “Ogawa.” She had on an olive drab baseball cap that forced her to pull her long hair back in a ponytail, but she still managed to make the entire thing look good. She couldn’t have been older than her early twenties. Her face held youthful beauty, but her eyes displayed great intelligence . . . and hostility. I’m certain that the former had gotten her the job she currently held, and the latter was reserved for clumsy, ignorant American soldiers that interrupted her during her aforementioned job.
It wasn’t until I happened to catch a whiff of her very subtle perfume that I finally placed the scream and the curse. Without the slightest thought about what I was saying, I pointed to her and said, “You’re that woman that I picked up at the airport!” A few snickers spread among the attendees. “No, I mean that she wrapped herself around me . . .” More laughter. “I meant that . . . well an MP had to separate us . . .” The laughter was pretty endemic now. Really, do some of us ever grow up? Then again, I’m the one that still laughs whenever anyone uses the word “duty.”
“Could you please just be quiet and go away?” I looked again at the tech rep and realized that her English was quite good when she wasn’t being involuntarily carried through an airport by a frantic soldier. She was blushing, but she was also trembling with anger. In a very brief time I had managed to embarrass her, wreck her presentation, and possibly also her reputation. I screw more things up by 8:00 a.m. than most people do all day. “I would like to keep my job, and I don’t know if I can do that if I take one of our products, walk up to you, and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“But if they are any good, we’d still be able to see through them there.” I have no idea what made me say that. Maybe I was trying to be sarcastic. Maybe I was nervous. Maybe this was some awkward method of flirting for me.
Whatever it was, it worked. Shaking a little less, she nodded and said, “In full, living color.” I found myself raising my eyebrows in surprise and took a seat. Ms. Ogawa raised her voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in the tent. “As Private,” she glanced at my name tape, “Pup, here, just heard, the best feature of this product is that it is the first night vision system to provide this important ability in full color, not the green-and-black or white-and-black monochrome that you have become accustomed to.” She picked up one of the sets of goggles from off of the floor where it had fallen. “The private also has helped to demonstrate that these devices are fully prepared for use in the field and can survive rough handling without losing functionality. Grab the closest set off of the floor, and we can finally demonstrate.”
Looking around, I found a set near my feet and picked them up. Ms. Ogawa demonstrated how the goggles could be worn and how they turned on. She then had the mess tent darkened. It never occurred to me how dark that tent could get with everything sealed up. I discovered that the hard way when I smacked my knee on the table in front of me. I could have sworn that I heard a satisfied chuckle come from the young tech rep. I turned on the goggles, and the world opened up to me once again. While there wasn’t quite as much detail as I would have seen with the naked eye in daylight, all of the colors were exactly the same. I could clearly make out all of the names and ranks of the soldiers around me, I could tell which donuts were chocolate or maple glazed (I tested them, just to be sure), and I could see that olive drab did a wonderful job of showcasing Ms. Ogawa’s skin tone and highlighting her intelligent eyes (stupid hormones!).
Lights were brought back up, and we were all sufficiently impressed. She asked for questions, which was probably a mistake. Most of the soldiers had a few questions about compatibility with current mounting systems or battery life. I had a million technical questions. Surprisingly, Ms. Ogawa answered most of them off of the top of her head. Eventually, though, I either stumped her or annoyed her. She pulled a thick technical manual out of her bag and dropped it onto the table in front of me. “There is something for you to read tonight,” she said.
With no more questions, the Professor dismissed us. Ms. Ogawa made certain that the lieutenant had her card before he left. “That is the easiest way to contact me if you have any questions about your units. I would also like to invite you to Japan to go through our training course so that you can be prepared to deal with any issues yourself, since my company will not let me deploy into the field with you.”
“That’s a damn shame, Ms. Ogawa,” he replied with a hint of a smile on his face. “Something tells me you’d do very well out there.” He bowed to her before leaving the tent. Halfway through the door, the Professor stopped and turned around. “You might want to give Pup your card, too. He might be a better choice for the training.”
I turned to her and held out my hand for a card, but she was still looking at the door, smiling. See my problem with guys like the Professor? He’s smart, charming, and looks like every woman’s dream, even women from the other side of the planet. Compared to him, I’m just . . . well . . . me. I had to clear my throat to get the young lady’s attention. She snapped out of her reverie and handed me a card. I was about to leave when I thought of something that I had wanted to ask her since I had realized who she was. “Ms. Ogawa, I was wondering why you never told me you spoke English.”
“What do you mean?”
I helped her pack up her materials as I explained
. “Well, when I . . . uh . . . ran into you at the airport, you never gave any indication that you spoke English.”
She looked at me as if I had grown another head. “Seriously? Well, let me ask you this. Do you speak another language?”
“A little Klingon,” I replied. It’s a language! Really, it is!
“We will forget how sad that is for just a moment. Come around the table and stand here with me.” I stepped around the table and stood a few feet away from her. She beckoned me closer, and closer, and closer still. Finally I was standing just a few inches from her. I could make out wisps of her hair that were escaping from underneath the cap. I could see that she wore contacts in her eyes, and I could once again smell her perfume. I could almost hear the romantic background music playing as she looked up into my eyes as well. I started wondering if I should kiss her.
I had just begun moving forward ever so slowly when she stomped on my foot. Hard. I mean really hard. My brain took note of the pain and tried to decide whether anything was broken. “Holy crap! What the hell?” I shouted out as I hobbled back a few steps.
She moved up close to me again. I actually cringed when she approached. “Now, why didn’t you curse in Klingon?” she asked me quietly.
I stopped hobbling, forgot about the pain in my foot, and thought about the question. I’m strange like that (among a million other ways). A good intellectual exercise will make me forget all else. She obviously could tell that I was drawing the parallels because she nodded and returned to packing up her materials. “You could have just told me,” I complained.
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