tours. The best feature about the club was the high-stakes poker games that seemed to go on continuously day and night. There were a lot of rumors going around about big winners at the tables, but the top-dollar man was a supply officer who was supposed to have won over a million dollars playing poker in the club over a three-year spread.
Paul stopped to glance in the dining room for Jay but didn’t see him at any of the tables, so he went up the stairs to the bar. Jay wasn’t there either.
Paul ordered a double shot of bourbon and carried it with him over to the card room. Floating cigar smoke in the long room was a permanent fixture.
The chairs circling the three felt-top tables were all filled with players. Paul ordered another bourbon from the bargirl and took a seat on one of the high-backed rattan chairs used for observers. The poker game to his immediate left was an unlimited pot, with over fifty thousand dollars in chips showing in front of the seven players. To his right the action was faster, but for smaller stakes, with very few of the dark-blue hundred-dollar chips showing on the green felt. Fifty-dollar red and ten-dollar white chips were neatly stacked in front of each player. Paul watched five hands being played to pace the intensity of the betting. He waved for the club attendant to come over to him and told the small man that he would like to play at the next open seat on the second table. The officer’s club took a ten-dollar chip from every winning poker hand dealt. The Vietnamese monitor stationed at each of the tables ensured that the winner of each hand dropped a ten-dollar chip in the wooden box attached to the table. There were very few complaints over the revenue-collecting system, because it was only the winner of each hand who had to pay the club tax, and each hand of poker averaged between fifty and a hundred dollars, minimum. Paul converted five hundred dollars into chips at the cashier’s window. The table attendant was waiting for Paul when he returned, and beckoned for him to fill an empty seat. There weren’t any introductions when Paul sat down. Poker playing at the club wasn’t a friendly camp game but a money-making enterprise. Most of the talking was saved for around the bar.
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“I hope that you have better luck with the damn seat than I had,”
growled a voice from behind Paul’s chair. “I dropped three grand in less than two hours.”
Paul didn’t answer the loser. He stacked his small pile of chips in front of his seat and looked up at the man dealing the cards.
“We’re playing dealer’s choice with a fifty-dollar limit on each bet with three raises. Fifty dollars opens a hand.” The dealer spoke in a monotone trying to act nonchalant. “You can draw money from anywhere. We don’t play like the high-stakes table. Of course, we ain’t going to wait here while you run all over the compound trying to raise a bet.”
Paul nodded his head. The first hand lasted only a couple of minutes with Paul losing a hundred dollars.
“Hi, Paul. I figured I’d find you up here.” Jay pulled a chair up behind Paul’s. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Sure, no problem.” Paul glanced around at the rest of the players. “Any of you mind?”
“Naw—as long as your friend only looks at your cards.” The dealer smirked. Paul didn’t answer the wisecrack.
“The name of the game is hi-lo. Straight flush can be used either way.”
The dealer flipped the first round of cards, cracking each one as he pulled it off the top of the deck.
“I haven’t played this game before. How about passing me this hand, so that I can see how it’s played.” Paul didn’t like learning a new game, especially at the stakes being bet.
“Sorry, buddy. Play every hand or give up your seat. House rules.” The dealer grinned with a cigar flipping up and down in his fat mouth.
“The game is simple, Paul.” Jay leaned over Paul’s shoulder so he wouldn’t have to speak loudly. “You play with seven cards, like in stud, except you can also go for the lowest hand using five cards. In this case, ace, two, three, four, and five of any suit would be low, or could also be used as a high hand.
According to the dealer’s rules the perfect hand would be a straight flush, ace low card.”
All seven cards had been dealt. Each player picked up one white chip and one red chip from the stacks in front of their seats and held them under the table, ready to declare which way they were going, high or low. If they opened their palm on the table and it contained both chips, that meant they were going both ways.
Paul declared with a red chip, meaning he wanted to go high, and lost the hand. The next person dealing also wanted to play hi-lo, and Paul anted his fifty dollars. He lost again. Hi-lo was a game where the betting was always heavy, because most of the time there were two people betting for 93
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the pot. It was very rare that a player would drop out before all seven cards had been dealt.
“Let’s try that game again.” The player to Paul’s left had just won the pot and the deal went to him.
Paul looked at the first two cards dealt to him, the ace of clubs and the four of clubs. Paul met the fifty-dollar openers and raised fifty. He was bumped fifty by the man dealing the cards. Everyone around the table stayed in the game.
“Jay, do you have any money?” Paul had a few hundred dollars left back with his gear in the BOQ, but didn’t want to take the time to go back and get it.
“Sure—I’ll get it changed into chips.” Jay left and went over to the barred cashier’s window.
“Let’s get some refill on the booze while we’re waiting for the lieutenants,”
a major who was sitting directly across from Paul spoke with a confident grin on his face.
Jay returned and placed twenty red chips in front of Paul. He bent over and whispered into his friend’s ear, “This is my R & R money, so don’t lose all of it.”
Paul nodded.
The next card face-up for Paul was the two of clubs. Paul had been dealt four cards and all of them played directly into a straight flush. He felt Jay’s hand on his shoulder. The fifth cards were dealt around the table and the major received the six of diamonds, while the player to Paul’s right got the six of clubs. The dealer paused and leaned forward against the table. He held Paul’s card out in front of him. “Looks like this stops your flush!”
“Deal.” Paul didn’t waste time looking over at the major.
“Wait!” The major was glaring at Paul. “Before you get your next card, I want to make a side bet with you. I’ll bet you one thousand dollars that you don’t draw a straight flush!” The major was getting scared over the high stakes already in the pot and was trying to bait Paul to see if he had confidence in his hand.
Paul didn’t hesitate at all. “You’re on, sir—a grand.”
The next card to Paul was the five of clubs. He allowed a fake frown cross his face. Lieutenant Bourne glanced at the arrogant major, who had been watching his expression very closely.
“You think that helped?” The major smiled using only half of his mouth.
Bourne’s sixth card was the six of diamonds.
The major led the betting with all seven of the players staying in the game. Paul’s seventh card was the queen of hearts. He clenched his teeth and pushed the card away from the rest that were lined up in front of him.
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“What’s wrong, Lieutenant? No more clubs in the deck for you?” The major’s voice echoed laughter. “You’d better drop out and save yourself a couple hundred dollars.”
Paul released his-sucker catching grin at the major. “Shut up and bet . . . sir.”
“Shit—you’re bluffing!” The major was confident he held a better hand than the lieutenant.
“Bet.” Paul looked down at the bottom of the whiskey glass he brought up to his lips.
The last round of
betting drew half the men from the bar who had been watching the match between the braggadocio major and Paul. The pot contained almost six thousand dollars—plus the thousand-dollar side bet between Paul and the major.
The major declared both ways. Paul also had declared both ways with the remaining players split.
“Well, Lieutenant. Read them and weep.” The major flipped his hole cards over. He had a damn good hand. A six-high straight, and a two-through-six for the low hand.
Paul casually turned over his cards and sorted through them until he had his ace-low flush arranged in numerical order.
“I guess you lose, Major. I’ve got an ace-through-five straight flush for high win, and an ace-through-five for low win.” Paul used both of his arms to pull the chips over to his side of the table. “I’ll take the thousand either in chips or MPC.”
“I’ll be a son of a bitch.” The dealer picked up Paul’s cards from the green-felt cloth. “I’ve played a lot of poker, but this is the first time that I’ve seen a pinwheel in hi-lo!”
“You’re a lucky bastard, Lieutenant.” The major was trying to overcome the beating he had taken at the card table, both in ego and money. “You don’t play poker worth a shit!”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “Who won?”
Jay helped Paul carry the chips in his beret to the cashier’s cage where they converted them back into ten-dollar-denomination military payment cer-tificates. Paul counted off two hundred of the bills and handed them to Jay.
“I only loaned you a thousand.”
“Interest rates are high in Vietnam.” Paul divided the remaining stack of bills into separate piles and wrapped rubber bands around them.
Paul paused as they passed the poker table where he had given up his seat. “If you come down to the dining room later, Major, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Fuck you, Lieutenant!” The major kept his eyes glued on his cards.
Paul ordered a special cut T-bone steak along with Jay. They both had brought drinks with them from the bar upstairs.
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“Man! That was poker at its best!” Jay shook his head. “I was really about to lose it all when you drew that five of clubs!” Jay slapped the tabletop with his open palm. “Say, don’t they get the ass when someone wins and then leaves right away?”
“Not here.” Paul took a long draw from his bourbon. “You have to understand, Jay, those games up there are cutthroat. Take that major up there. He probably spends his nights playing poker with drunks coming in from the A-Teams who come back here for a couple of nights of fun. They really don’t care if they win or lose as long as they’re having fun. The major and his rear-area-support buddies are like vultures. They wait until the men are too drunk to think right, and then they rip them off at the poker tables. You’ll never see one of them in the club before ten at night.”
“I guess some of those guys don’t have much of a chance to spend any money at their A sites, do they?” Jay leaned back, giving the waitress room to place a huge steak in front of him.
“You’re right. They have five or six months of accumulated pay and no place to spend it. They’re ripe for the taking when they get here.” Paul paused and looked out of the dining room at a group of drunks trying to make it out of the front doors. “Well, I’ve made enough money in one night to last me for years here in Vietnam. I think I’ll put it in the 10 percent savings program.”
“That sounds like a great idea. Wake me when you get up in the morning and I’ll go over to finance with you.” Jay concentrated on the steak in front of him.
When they had finished eating Paul spoke, “Let’s have a nightcap up at the main bar.”
“Sounds good to me.” Jay checked his side pocket on his jungle fatigues, ensuring that the bundle of money he had stored there hadn’t slipped out.
“You haven’t told me why you left Quang Tri.” Paul led the way up the stairs.
Jay located a pair of overstuffed chairs near the stage in the large bar room and sat down before answering Paul’s question. “You know, Paul, I have always admired you, and I was really very jealous of your airborne wings when we were in OCS.” Jay blushed but continued, “I checked with MACSOG’s liaison officer here and they’ve accepted me for one of their reconnaissance team leaders. I’ll be based out of Command and Control North at Da Nang.”
“Do you know what you’re getting into, Jay?” Paul slid straight up in his chair. “That’s big-time stuff up there.”
“Yes, I realize the danger—but I’m sick and tired of busting my ass for chicken-shit outfits!” Jay averted his eyes from Paul’s.
“Hey! Chicken-shit units are one thing, but CCN has a reputation as being one tough unit to stay alive in!” Paul emphasized his words. “Don’t get me wrong—they’re damn good doing what they do for the war effort and 96
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they have the cream of the crop when it comes to selecting people—but they have the toughest missions going in the war!”
“I realize what you’re trying to say, Paul,” Jay’s face took on a frustrated look, “but I’m a soldier and I came here to fight, not hide somewhere in a damn bunker waiting for the war to end.”
“Whoa! Back up a bit, Jay.” Paul leaned back in his chair. “What’s really bothering you?”
Jay looked over at the bar, trying to decide if he should get another drink before diving into the story he had to tell Paul. He decided against it. “I told you when I first got in-country they had sent me to a unit up in I Corps near Quang Tri. Well, I was assigned as a platoon leader to one of the brigade’s infantry companies. We fought a couple good fire-fights up near the DMZ
and lost a couple men. I even won a medal.”
“Which one?”
“The Distinguished Service Cross.”
“That’s great!” Paul was sincerely happy for his friend. “Now I know a real hero!”
“Cut the shit! You won the DSC when you were a sergeant with the 173d, didn’t you?” Jay’s voice was filled with mock anger. “Believe me, the DSC I won saved my ass in the long run.”
Paul relaxed in his seat as Jay continued his story.
“Remember a few months ago, when one of the big Stateside magazines published that story about the high percentage rate of minorities being killed in combat compared to whites?”
“Yes, I remember reading about that bullshit. You know, Jay, that they can make statistics say what they want them to.”
“We know that, but the blacks in my brigade played that story to the hilt!
Last week my company was cycled back to the brigade’s base area at Quang Tri for a week of perimeter guard duty. I went over to the artillery battalion headquarters to coordinate with their fire-direction officer for nightly protective fires. I took our forward observer with me, and we stayed at the battalion headquarters for supper. After we had eaten, we went back to the tactical operations center to finish coordinating artillery fire, and it was around nine o’clock when a soldier ran into the bunker and told the duty sergeant that there was a large group of black soldiers raising hell in the Artillery Bowl. The artillery unit has set up an area in the center of their camp where they showed movies at night—they called the place the Artillery Bowl. Anyway, the soldier said that the situation was really getting out of hand. I told the sergeant that I’d go and check it out, seeing that the artillery officer was busy conducting a fire mission and I didn’t have anything to do. I didn’t think it would take long, so I told the duty sergeant to stay with the artillery officer.”
“Weren’t there any of the battalion officers around to help?”
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“Yes, but the battalion commander was having a party for one of his staff officers in the officers’ quarters, and at the time I didn’t think t
hey needed to be disturbed. I thought that I could handle it without any trouble. I went over to the Artillery Bowl using a path between two of the buildings. When I got there I could see between sixty and a hundred black soldiers packed together around the plywood stage. I stayed in the dark between the buildings and watched for a few minutes, trying to get the pulse of the situation. The blacks were really getting wound up. I noticed that there were a couple of white soldiers watching from a distance and they were carrying their rifles. After listening to what the blacks were yelling, I could understand why the whites were nervous.
“Were there any black NCOs in the group?”
“You can bet your ass there were! Talk about pissing me off! You would think the NCOs would try and calm the younger soldiers down—but instead, they were the leaders!”
Paul frowned. He was interested in what Jay was saying, because he had heard rumors that there were racial problems in the regular line units and that senior officers were covering the incidents.
“Anyway, based on what the blacks were saying, stuff like ‘we ain’t going to fight no white man’s war,’ and ‘we ain’t going to fight against our colored brothers from the north’ and shit like that! It sounded like a damn commie rally! I mean one of them even said that if you had a choice you should kill whites when you got in a fire-fight and shoot over the heads of the NVA!”
“Jay!” Paul was getting upset. He knew a lot of very loyal American black soldiers. “Come on! Even if the blacks were a little upset about the magazine article, they wouldn’t advocate killing fellow Americans!”
“If I’m lying, I’m flying! I’m not bullshitting you!” Jay’s eyes reflected that he wasn’t. “I hope that all of the blacks standing there didn’t feel that way, but the speaker sure did.”
“Just hearing about it turns my stomach!” Paul shook his head. “I have known a lot of damn fine black soldiers who would have shot that bastard just on the principle of the thing!”
“Yeah! Well, none of them were at Quang Tri that night.” Jay swallowed half of his drink before he continued, “The uproar that they were causing drew the attention of the brigade duty officer, who was located about a hundred meters away from their assembly. I watched as a group of about five white officers approached the black group. I stepped farther back into the shadows and continued watching the show. One of the officers was the brigade commander himself. When he reached the black crowd, he pushed his way through the group up to the stage and climbed up, followed by two of his staff officers. Man, did the blacks start yelling then! It took the black leader 98
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