by Doug Bradley
Pulling it off wasn’t going to be easy. It would require as much stealth and skill as any covert military operation. And the undertaking could be risky, too. Myron couldn’t bear to think of the ridicule that might be heaped on him if his mission failed.
So, even while the stakes were high and thick, Myron remained undaunted. With all the Army’s talk of winning hearts and minds, his “weight loss and exercise club” would reduce Vietnamese behinds and establish his legacy as one of the war’s unsung heroes.
And it would win the heart of Sang Le Mai.
As he stood in the NCO club, watching Mai deliver big, juicy hamburgers to hungry and horny GIs, Myron knew he had to move fast. He couldn’t bear to watch her slide her delicate fingers into the stack of French fries or sneak a lick of hamburger grease. He knew that as soon as Mai completed her rounds, she and her kitchen comrades would feast on the same high-caloric content. Myron approached Mai’s table, operation clearly in mind.
Suddenly, a set of trays crashed to the floor back by the kitchen. Mai jumped, as Sergeant Rob Swenson, the titular manager of the club, rushed over and started screaming at the tiny Vietnamese woman picking up the trays.
“Du mi ami,” Swenson scolded, leaving little doubt what vulgarity he was hollering at the frightened worker. Myron put his hands over his ears as he looked at the humiliated young woman. Her slim, twig-like figure reminded Myron of Mai’s when he’d first met her months ago.
Since then, Mai’s figure had changed, now more like a tree trunk than a twig. The larger Mai got, the unhappier Myron became. They couldn’t go back to the States this way, like two large shipments of hold baggage.
Myron found himself standing in front of Mai.
“No good,” he mumbled, sliding Mai’s tray away.
Mai smiled. “GI get his own food. This for Mai.” She reached over and stuck her fork in a mountain of fries.
“Too much,” Myron slid the tray away from Mai’s fork. “Numbah Ten,” he added with a scolding face.
“Food good. Mai like,” she said, making a counter attack on her French fries.
This went on for several minutes, like a bad Three Stooges skit—Myron sliding the tray away and Mai moving it back. One observer who wasn’t amused was club manager Sgt. Rob Swenson.
“Enough of the fucking Chinese checkers,” Swenson shouted, smiling a little at his own joke. “Mai, get your ass back in the kitchen.” He turned toward Myron. “You Numbah 10 GI,” Swenson made a fake scowl. “The bigger my girls get, the better it is for my business.”
“Choi oi,” Myron whistled, trying to keep Mai’s attention. “You dinky dau. Americans no like fat.”
“There it is,” Swenson countered, poking a finger in the direction of Myron’s belly. Mai giggled her schoolgirl giggle. “How come Sar-Jen Myron beaucoup fat?” Swenson pulled his eyes sideways as to appear Oriental. Mai kept laughing.
“Dung Lai.” Myron shouted, trying to get them both to stop. His face was redder than the ketchup on Mai’s tray, so he knew he had to get the hell out of there.
“Mihn oi!” Swenson shouted after him with his fake accent, using the Vietnamese word for sweetheart. Mai was still laughing as Myron’s heart beat louder and louder with every step he took away from the NCO Club.
Myron headed back to the mess hall to finish taking inventory, but he found himself distracted by his fantasy of making love to Mai, of taking her home and showing her off to his old co-workers at the Piggly Wiggly. Then he thought of Swenson and his heart sank. He would’ve come down every day on the E-5 if it weren’t for the deal he’d just cut with Swenson about the Clamato juice and the exercise shoes.
Their arrangement was pretty straightforward. Myron’s materials would be sent to Swenson who’d pick them up with his usual shipments, transport them to the NCO club and keep them hidden, the cans of juice slapped on ice in back of the club’s frosty fridge. Myron, in turn, would surrender a cartoon each of Kools and Salems, along with a bottle of Hennessy, to Swenson every Thursday, just before Clamato Club was to convene.
“You should be teaching these dinks how to spread their legs, not slim their thighs,” Swenson volunteered during one of their conversations. “A GI needs something to hold on to, not some baby san on a diet.”
Swenson’s grin was as wide as his boonie hat. Myron quickly looked away to avoid Swenson’s omnipresent wink.
“You shouldn’t talk about them that way,” protested Myron. “They’re good girls, they work hard, and most of them are working two jobs to support their families. They’re not here for your entertainment.”
“Sarge, you are living in la-la-land.” Swenson rested his long arm on Myron’s shoulder. “It’s all about entertainment. The war, the girls, the clubs, the booze, the dope, the VC—even you and me!”
Swenson dropped his arm from Myron’s shoulder. Myron stared at his massive forearm and the tuft of matted hair bleached blonde by the Southeast Asian sun. The sooner he got away from Swenson, the better.
“Lighten up, Sarge.” Swenson made a mock salute. “But don’t push me too far or I’ll tell everybody about your little weight-watchers’ scheme.”
“All right,” Myron shuddered. “You win. See you next week.”
Walking back to his hooch, Myron wondered how the Army spawned soldiers like Swenson. This draftee from Minnesota seemed to have his hand in everything that went on at Long Binh Post. Why did the Army allow that to happen?
But this was no time for distractions. Myron had to get his ducks in a row. Over the next few days, he worked on a diagram showing the benefits of Clamato juice and how it was a combination of tomato juice, clam broth, and spices. The Vietnamese liked clams, didn’t they?
He drew charts outlining the six steps on the Quick Loss Diet. He made a sign that said: “NOTHING ELSE IS PERMITTED ON THIS DIET—NOTHING! IF IT’S NOT MENTIONED IN THE SIX STEPS, DON’T EAT OR DRINK IT.”
When he finished, Myron fumbled frantically through his Vietnamese dictionary, trying to find the right words to communicate his vital message.
When Thursday afternoon finally arrived, Myron summoned the Vietnamese workers to the NCO Club. Women of all shapes and sizes stood in the center of the room, smiling as he entered. One of them pushed Mai toward Myron. The rest giggled. As Mai moved closer, Myron led her to a folding chair and gestured for her to sit down. Giggling, the others copied Mai.
Myron began his presentation, complete with props and charts and gestures. He was earnest and sincere, but his audience doubled over in laughter almost as soon as he started. Adding to Myron’s discomfort was the Club itself, which reeked of beer, cigarettes, and hamburger grease. Myron wanted to hold his nose and breathe through his mouth to avoid inhaling anything toxic but that was nearly impossible since he needed his hands free to display his props and brandish his plastic pointer.
By any standard, Myron’s Clamato Club meeting was a disaster. To begin with, he didn’t have a clue about teaching. Myron rocked back and forth in front of the graffiti-strewn bar, waving his pointer wildly and punctuating the air with his lofty plan. Every portion of his talk took twice as long as he’d planned since Mai, when she wasn’t laughing, had to translate everything he said. There was no guarantee that whatever Mai was saying related in any way to what Myron was trying to communicate.
Worse yet, Swenson and his crew repeatedly strutted in and out, using any excuse to parade in front of Myron’s class. “Sarge, don’t you think the ladies would like to sit on cushions instead of those shitty old chairs? Sarge, can we show your students how to get some real exercise?”
The last straw for Myron was the fact that not one of the women took a single sip from the cans of Clamato juice he’d distributed. Mai in particular turned up her nose. Myron didn’t even bother passing around the boxes of exercise shoes.
It was getting late and the women were fidgeting. As recommended by Dr. Maxwell’s Quick Weight Loss Diet, Myron had begun drinking eight glasses of water a day. He desperately needed
to pee.
“Class dismiss…” he started to say when Swenson appeared at his side.
“Take five, Sergeant Swoboda.” Swenson patted him on the back. Instead of arguing, Myron hustled to the latrine.
On his way back inside the club, Myron was startled to hear the women singing something that sounded like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in rounds. There was laughter, too. At the front of the room, Swenson was conducting the class with a large cucumber as his baton.
When they stopped singing, the women burst into applause. Mai was clapping the loudest.
“Sar-Jen ver lee good swinger,” Mai directed at Swenson.
“Honey, you don’t know the half of it,” Swenson patted her cheek. Myron wanted to run and hide.
“All yours, Sarge.” Swenson turned to leave.
“Where you going?” Even to himself, Myron sounded helpless.
“Gotta go. Got beaucoup work.”
As if on command, all the Vietnamese workers rose to leave with Swenson. Myron pleaded with them, especially Mai, to take their cans of Clamato juice with them. “You drink, Numbah One,” his voice rising. “Stay thin, go to America!”
No one turned around.
“Doesn’t anyone want to go to America with me?” Myron mumbled under his breath, defeat beating him down yet again. He looked up to see Swenson handing each of the workers two cans of Clamato juice and a pack of Salems.
“You gotta know how the local economy works,” Swenson said with a wry smile. “We’ll find a way to use the stuff, just wait and see.”
* * *
“That’s it,” Myron admitted to Swenson the next time he dropped by the NCO Club. “This entire damn nation can stay fat and Communist as far as I’m concerned.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Sarge.” Swenson patted him on the back. “These slopes care more about nuoc mam than your special brew. Besides, we’re just fattening ‘em up for the slaughter anyway.”
Myron changed the subject. “My buddy in New York said he’ll take all the cans back and not charge me for them. Can you return those cases of Clamato juice to the APO today?
Swenson let out a whistle. “No can do, First Sergeant.”
“Whaddya mean, no can do?”
“Well, since the slant eyes didn’t much want to drink your juice, I did a little experimenting.” Swenson waved his hands like a magician. “A splash of vodka, some salt and pepper, a little bit of Worcestershire—a dash of oregano, and voila.”
“Volia what?”
“Voila this,” Swenson handed a repurposed can to Myron. “The Clamato Cong cocktail.”
Myron handed the drink back. “How dare you,” he blustered. “You had no right. These cans were for me and my, for me and my…”
“They were for Mai all right,” Swenson interrupted. “You wanted to get into her pants and you wanted more room down there to fool around.”
Myron was speechless.
“Sarge, after a while you’ll realize that the bigger the load the better the ride,” Swenson licked his lips. “Lock and load.”
“Why, you no good, cheating, vulgar …” Myron was turning from red to blue to purple.
Swenson squeezed Myron’s arm.
“Don’t pull that holier than thou shit with me,” he snarled. “We’re both after the same things—a little nookie and some relief from this fucking hellhole. I’m no goddamn saint, but neither are you.”
Myron started to speak, but Swenson cut him off.
“And remember, I know about all your special shipments and your sorry-ass crush on Mai. I have friends in high places.”
Painfully aware that all was lost, Myron felt like crying.
“Chins up, Sarge,” Swenson beamed. “I can cut you and your buddy in on this action. The wetbacks over at the Motor Pool can’t get enough of this Clamato cocktail stuff, so you just keep the cans coming and I’ll keep those taco troopers slurping it down. Everybody wins!”
Abruptly, Myron pulled a Myron—he spun around and walked away. Nothing had gone right, but the hell with it. He still had his love for Mai and their future together in America. He’d complete his Army paperwork and drop it off at headquarters the next morning. It helped that Myron was well acquainted with DOD Reg 7000.14-R, Volume 7B, Chapter 1, Initial Entitlement—Retirement. He would fill out the necessary paperwork faster than you could say “Richard Milhous Nixon.”
That would get the retirement clock ticking. And that nice little ring he’d bought in Saigon last week—he’d give that to Mai tomorrow, too.
Yes, tomorrow would be better, Myron consoled himself as he turned in that evening. But he hardly slept, awakened by dreams of having sex with Mai in all kinds of public places—the mess hall, the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut, in front of the Statue of Liberty. After he dreamed of making love to Mai on the lawn of his mother’s house in Oak Grove, he had to wash the sheets.
* * *
Myron was up before reveille the next morning, completed his mess hall rounds in record time, and marched to company headquarters to deliver his retirement paperwork. He decided to swing by the NCO Club on his way back to his hooch to see just how much Clamato juice Swenson was hoarding. He didn’t trust him, and he knew his nemesis wouldn’t be here at this early hour, so he could avoid the usual confrontation.
Myron tiptoed behind the kitchen toward the supply room and freezer. There was the long ash of a barely smoked Marlboro in an ashtray on Swenson’s desk. His heart stopped.
“Lock and load,” Swenson’s voice piped up from the supply room. He came out to greet Myron.
“You’re up early,” Myron stammered, glancing at Swenson’s pants.
“Are you admiring my pecker, Sergeant Swoboda?
Myron flinched. Swenson laughed.
“It’s all that fucking Clamato juice,” Swenson explained. “Man, that shit makes me horny as hell.”
Myron remained stoic.
Swenson put his arm around Myron’s shoulder, gave it a little press, and started to escort Myron out of his office.
“You try way too hard, Sarge, you know that?” Swenson’s voice seemed friendlier. “You don’t need to try so fucking hard.”
“All I know is trying hard,” replied Myron. “That’s how I was raised. That’s how you survive. You try as hard as you can”
“Just the same, guys like you need guys like me to look out for you, to save you from.…”
Just then, there was a low rumble under Swenson’s desk. And another. And suddenly there she was, flushed, smiling, her hair tussled, wiping something from the front of her blouse. Dear god, no!
Myron stepped back as if he’s been knifed through the heart. He could barely stand up, and he couldn’t hold back the sobs.
“Mai, how could you? “Myron whimpered.
“Could me wha?”
“How could you deceive me?
“D.C.?”
“You know, lie to me.”
“I no lie, Sar-Jen. I stand,” Mai smiled, oblivious to Myron’s meltdown.
Myron bolted out the door, the blinding Asian sun hitting him square between the eyes. He stumbled, falling on to a mound of sandbags. SFC Myron Swoboda put his head in his hands and wept, the tears resting on top of a used can of Clamato juice, forming a pool of salt above the big red letters.
Nightly News
The hearty inhabitants of Eveleth, Minnesota, liked to engage in daily pleasantries. The topics of conversation had been the same for years—the weather, hockey, taconite, and kids.
Erik and Agnes Swenson were finding it harder to be pleasant these days. Their son Robbie, like the Lindstrom boy and Herb Long’s kid, was stationed in Vietnam. Fortunately for the Swensons, Robbie wrote often and even called home a couple of times.
But that didn’t really help them sleep any better.
On October 9, 1969, their TV trays again stood at attention, the beef pot pies sending pockets of steam to the alabaster ceiling, two glasses of milk resting at ease. Five nights a week Erik and Ag
nes ate dinner in front of the NBC Nightly News. They preferred the Huntley-Brinkley duo to the opinionated Walter Cronkite. And they liked that NBC did not play politics with the war, but just gave them informative, daily reports from Vietnam. Somehow, it made them feel connected to Robbie.
Between the commercials for Anacin and Tums, the dour David Brinkley introduced a segment by saying that “a former booking agent for Officers’ NCO Clubs in Vietnam, June Collins, testified that club managers had demanded kickbacks. When she complained, she was boycotted and her acts were not hired.”
A segment of testimony by June Collins came next. “Sleazy harlot,” Erik muttered into his pot pie when he saw the shapely, bouffant-haired Miss Collins. She told her questioners that corruption was widespread in NCO Clubs across Vietnam.
“I don’t know of a single custodian who doesn’t get kickbacks,” she testified to the TV cameras.
“Screw her,” Erik shouted at the TV.
Agnes asked nervously, “You don’t think this has anything to do with Robbie, do you?”
As if on cue, shots of a U. S. Army base appeared on the TV screen. David Brinkley’s voice could be heard in the background: “The potential for graft in Vietnam is enormous. One post alone—Long Binh—has forty-two clubs.”
Agnes shrieked. Erik got up to turn off the TV. It took him a while because of his old mining injury.
Before he could reach the set, there were more shots of Long Binh as another reporter, outside a club that looked a lot like Robbie’s, began talking. “The more than one hundred such clubs in Vietnam translate into a nine million dollar a year operation,” the reporter named Robert Hager stated.
Click.
Agnes was sobbing. “Erik, you don’t think?”
Erik looked down on the RCA Victor. His face was bright red.
“I know what I think,” he stammered. “I think our son is serving his country and doing his duty. I think we’re losing this damn war because of the media and the spoiled college kids.” Erik’s face turned redder as he added his own private thought. “And I think June Collins is angry because whoever was screwing her, dumped her.”