Facing The Enemy IV

"Man, did you hear the shit that went down last night?" Steiner had just picked up Darjeeling and was headed out to the ice plant for more ice. "I guess they came through the wire over by the POL yard, went onto the airfield and blew up four or five Chinooks before they routed them. Nobody was killed and they said they got a couple of them, let's go check it out."
"Man, I thought Tet was last month, I mean nothing happend then."
"Yeah, you and your oranges, everybody thought that was cool." Steiner wheeled onto the shoulder next to the airfield. They could see a crowd around a couple of the gutted Chinooks. Steiner took a couple of photos.
"Come on, man, I got to get over to the plant." Steiner fired up the truck and headed past the burned out Chinooks, they could see the blankets covering two bodies on the tarmac. When they got to the ice house the Chinese gentleman was standing on the dock with his hands on his hips. "Always late, always late," he said and pointed to his watch. Darjeeling looked around for Van but didn't see him. Steiner backed up to the dock and got out.
"Uh, sir, where is Van?" Darjeeling asked of the man.
"Not here, not here, inda wi-uh, inda wi-uh." The man had a serious look on his face. Darjeeling went over to the Vietnamese who were standing and waiting for rides to their work area.
"Van, where is Van?" Darjeeling asked.
"No here, ca ca dau, over there," the young Vietnamese girl pointed toward the airfield.
"Steiner! Take me back to the airfield! Now!" Darjeeling jumped in the truck as Steiner peeled out from the dock. He pulled right onto the airfield and right up to where the two bodies were. Darjeeling ran over and stood looking at them.
"Get out of here, private, this area is off limits," a second lieutenant approached him with his hand up.
"I think I know one of them, sir, please let me look." Darjeeling walked around the lieutenant and up to the blanketed bodies. Like a detective making an identification at a crime scene he pulled up the corner of the blanket nearest. There lay his friend Van. He covered him up and turned around heading back towards Steiner who could tell what had happened. The lieutenant approached him again.
"A friend of yours, private?"
"No sir, never seen him before, I made a mistake." Darjeeling grabbed the door and jumped in the truck. "Get me the fuck out of here, Steiner." He got back to the ice house and walked into the cold room. He sat down on a three hundred pound cake of ice and cried, his tears freezing on the ice house floor.

Facing The Enemy III

The morning was already hot at 8:00 as Darjeeling walked the mile or so to the ice plant. He was about a quarter mile away when a 3/4 ton utility vehicle rushed passed him and slammed on the brakes. It was Steiner, the guy who had taken his place as bartender at the Officer's Club. He was probably on his way to the plant after loading up with booze and beer at the Class VI yard.
"Hey, Darjeeling, you need a lift to the plant?" Steiner yelled as he jammed the truck in reverse, squeeling the tires and pulling up alongside. "Man, how come you didn't get with me, man, I would have picked you up."
"Aw, I didn't want to hassle you, man and besides I like walking when I'm stoned. It's like I'm rolling the Earth under my feet, you know what I mean, man?"
"No, you're too weird, man, get in," he said laughing. The truck took off like a shot, nearly colliding with the hospital bus coming out of Cu Chi Dustoff where the injured were brought in.
"Get out the fuckin' way," Steiner yelled and the look on the bus driver's face was one of absolute incredulity that someone would yell and honk at a hospital bus full of wounded that were headed stateside. But that was Steiner, a surfer dude from Marin County, California. He had been in country for about three months but had everything figured out already. He had fixed it so he would never go out in the field again after leaving his deuce-and-a-half double parked in front of a bar in Saigon. The MP's had escorted him back and he was confined to the base camp just like Darjeeling. That suited him just fine, not that either one of them were cowards, but both of them had conscientous objector documents on file with the Battalion HQ and the actions were pending. They had talked about it and figured out that the so called war just wasn't right or worth it. They figured that if everyone felt like they did, there wouldn't be any war. All Steiner wanted to do now was to catch some waves at Cam Ranh Bay. He pulled up to the ice plant. "Man, do you think you can load me up so I don't have to wait so long?" he asked Darjeeling.
"Yeah, man, hey I met this cool Vietnamese dude that I work with, come on I want you to meet him."
"Yeah, ok, but I got to run before that new Warrant Officer that's running the O Club gets wise that I'm gone. "
"Oh, you mean Crazy Jane? He is a pain," Darjeeling rhymed.
"Man, you ought to write songs, man," Steiner said as Darjeeling waved at Van and motioned for him to come over.
"Steiner, this is Van. He's cool for a Vietnamese."
"Cool for Vietnamese?" Van looked at Steiner, sizing him up. Steiner looked at Van and stuck out his hand.
"If Darjeeling says your're cool, then you're cool." The two shook hands and all three walked toward the plant dock. The Chinese subcontractor who ran the ice plant was standing on the dock yelling.
"Late, late, always late," he said to Van and Darjeeling looking and pointing at his watch. Van said something in Vietnamese and the Chinese businessman shot back a reply. Van laughed and jumped up on the dock, reaching back to give Darjeeling a hand up, who did the same for Steiner. They went inside the plant and the cold felt good after being in the humid air.
"Van, can you get the guy to let us load Steiner? That way he can go fuck off somewhere."
"No problem, just wait a minute."
"How did this guy get so good at English?" Steiner asked.
"I don't know, I just met him yesterday, he tried to smash me with a block of ice."
"Better watch him, man, he could be VC."
"I already accused him of that and I thought that he was really going to kill me then." When Van came back, the Chinese man was on his case, waving his arms and yelling in Chinese. Van motioned to Steiner to pull the truck up to the dock and then went inside the ice door, grabbing a pair of tongs and pulling a three hundred pounder out on the dock. His muscular arms showed as he gently let the block down into the bed of the truck. The cake of ice rested nicely on top of some cases of Johnnie Walker Black and Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer that Steiner had already picked up. "There you go, man, you better get that juice back to the juicers at the O Club." Steiner pulled out and Darjeeling turned to Van. "Hey thanks, man, that helped out a lot."
"No problem, man," Van turned and headed back to the ice door. The first semi was backing up for a load and it looked like it would be a long day. Darjeeling looked around for a place to take a couple of hits and ducked under the dock. They spent the rest of the morning loading ice and taking a break every now and then and talking about where they were from and what they liked. Then after lunch, Darjeeling told Van, "OK, slick, let's see who can fish and who can cut bait." Van just looked at him. Darjeeling held up his tongs and looked at Van. "Tong War, man, let's see what you got." Van started throwing three hundred pound blocks of ice like they were ice cubes and Darjeeling kept up, sliding the blocks one into the other with enough force to shake the trailer and break the cakes. Van tried to bury him in ice and Darjeeling kept up with him until he missed one cake with his hook and it was all over. He was hemmed in with ice blocks and Van just kept it coming until he had enough ice for the trailer. Then he jumped over the ice blocks and was standing beside Darjeeling. Together they finished placing the blocks and covering them with sawdust. When they got done Darjeeling raised his tongs in the air and clanked them against Van's. "Man, I never have seen anything like that. That was cool!" He and Van had a Coke and then it was time to go. As the Vietnamese group left, Van turned and waved slowly to Darjeeling. Darjeeling felt good that he had finally met a Vietnamese he could relate to and who was his friend. He went back to the hooch with a new feeling about Vietnam and how he could make something good out of his situation here.

Facing The Enemy II

"Darjeeling!! Darjeeling!! Wake up, man, wake up, we got gooks in the wire!" Davey from Oxnard CA pulled the sheets off of Darjeeling and pulled on his arm. "Come on, man, get up, for Christ's sake!"
"How about for my own sake? Calm down Davey, it's probably just another test of the Red Alert System and the lifers are just messing with us again." Darjeeling pulled on his fatigues and boots and hopped toward the door of the hooch as he laced them up. Outside was chaos. People were running everywhere and he could hear 105 rounds going off. "Holy shit, Davey, Arty is firing horizontal!" He barely got the words out before he heard the whistle and hiss of the RPG and saw the red dot fly past him and Davey and on into the interior of the camp. He looked in the direction from where it came but didn't see anyone in the wire. Their hooch was the first hooch inside the base camp perimeter and the 25th. Infantry Division Artillery was next in line. The fact that the artillery units were firing in a horizontal position meant only one thing: The big guns were aimed level at either VC or NVA trying to break through the perimeter. This meant sapper squads and others rushing the perimeter to overrun it before being mowed down by the perimeter guards and artillery. The artillery round used for this was the notorious "beehive" round named for the sound it made as it threw thousands of one inch darts through the air. Darjeeling ran back into the hooch to grab his M-16 and bumped into Davey and Hector who were pounding on the platoon sargeant's door. The platoon sargeant had the only key to the weapons rack and he was passed out as usual. Two other GI's, Rick and Ron were frantically trying to break the bar on the weapons rack but to no avail. Darjeeling walked back outside realizing that it was useless to try to wake SSG Lupe out of his whiskey stupor. "That's the difference between being a juicer or a head, one's alive and the other's dead." Darjeeling rhymed to himself as he got down behind a barrel filled with sand and picked up the sandbag on top, looking for his stash. Fumbling around, he found the pack and reached in, digging out a Park Lane. He threw one after another of the empty tubes away and then crumbled up the pack and threw it on the ground. "Fucking ants," he said out loud to nobody as everybody was running this way and that in total confusion. A guy ran past him with no boots on. "The fucking ants ate my stash." He said out loud and the guy stopped and asked Darjeeling what he had said. "I said the fucking ants ate my stash, man, is that breakin' foul or not?" The guy just shook his head and ran off in the direction he came from. Darjeeling watched as the artillery quit firing and the guard towers stopped firing the M-60 machine guns. It was over with that quick. "Well at least they're high and they're not juicer ants," He said to himself as he walked back into the hooch where about ten guys were confronting the Puerto Rican SSG who had finally come to and stood in the hallway, reeling this way and that almost to the point of falling down, mumbling unintelligable words in half Spanish and half English. One guy told him that SSG stood for Sorry Suckin' Grunt and that pissed the sargeant off. He started swinging his fists in the air hitting nobody. Two of the GIs finally pushed him back onto his bunk and shut the door to his private room, blocking it with a chair so he couldn't open the door. Then out came the shotgun pipe and they commenced to blow pot smoke under the door in hopes of calming the sargeant who was now trying to break the door down. Finally it became quiet just as First Lieutenant Broberg came through the hooch door. "Leftenant Blowbird," Darjeeling called out coming to attention in the British style. "What's happenin', sir?"
"At ease men," Blowbird said, laughing, "it was a false alarm."
"What?" Nearly everyone said in chorus.
"Yeah, Big Dan, the clerk from HQ took some psylocybin and hallucinated a truck coming through the wire. It's all cool now. We did have one RPG come in but it was in the "no fire" zone and they had to send a patrol out. They won't find anything out there, though, they never do. What's with you, Darjeeling?"
"The fuckin' ants ate my Park Lanes. And how come Arty was firin' beehives?"
"They're just as high as you're ants are, Deej, or maybe as high as Big Dan. I think they were bored and wanted something to do for a change."
"Man, I'm crashin' on that note." Darjeeling slipped back under the covers, vying for a few hours sleep before the morning came.

Facing The Enemy

Darjeeling reached out with the ice tongs and grabbed hold of the three hundred pound block of ice as it slid toward him, sidestepped and spun the block around and pushed it, using its own momentum to propel it toward the end of the refrigerated semi trailer. He turned back around as the next block slid past him and another one nearly knocked him down. "Hey, man, what are you trying to do, kill me?" He took off in the direction of the young Vietnamese man who was responsible for the ice floe, raising his tongs threateningly in the air. The young man merely smiled as he sent yet another huge cake of ice Darjeeling's way. "Cut it out, man, you're breakin' foul on me with that ice."
"No need for Tong War," the fellow smiled, laying his tongs down and reaching into the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on a hook in the trailer. He tapped the pack of cigarettes on the wall and peeled off the cellophane rapper. "You got a light, uh, Dah-Jeel-eeng?" He held the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, palm up, European style and moved it toward his lips, waiting to see if Darjeeling would comply. He knew Darjeeling had a lighter, he had seen it when they had taken a break the day before, as Darjeeling and the other GI slipped to the end of the trailer and shared a Park Lane. Then they had resumed loading trailer after trailer with the huge ice blocks that were destined for fire support base mess halls around the area of operations or AO as it was called. Darjeeling had drawn the duty as part of the menial tasks that had been assigned him when he had pulled the deuce-and-a-half fiasco a couple of weeks before. Confined to the base camp, he was assigned odd jobs around the base until further notice. That suited Darjeeling just fine. He could report for work, finish up the task, and then sham the rest of the day, dodging the Sargeant of the Day and the First Sargeant, thus avoiding further work. It wasn't that he was lazy, it was a game he played against the system. He called it the Broken Glass Bead Game, after the title of the novel by Herman Hesse.
"No, I don't have a light, and how did you know my name?"
"It's on your shirt, Dah-jeel-eeng, same shirt that has the Zippo lighter with the 25th Infantray Division emblem. It's in the left pocket with the pack of Park Lanes." The Vietnamese's voice was steady and his black eyes watched Darjeeling intently, smiling as he saw him reach into his shirt pocket and fish around for the lighter. When he had it he flung it toward the man, giving it a spin. The Vietnamese reached up and caught it without taking his eyes off of Darjeeling. He deftly flipped open the lighter and lit his cigarette returning it in the same manner. Darjeeling caught it and put it back in his shirt. "Not having a smoke, Dah-jeel-eeng?" He glanced toward the shirt pocket and blew blue smoke into the cold air of the refrigerated trailer. "Or maybe you think I might be El Cid," he said, referring to the C.I.D. or Criminal Investigation Division that often lurked undercover to bust GI's for smoking pot.
"Not El Cid, but maybe El Viet Cong," Darjeeling jammed the point of the tongs into the wooden side of the trailer and began taking off his shirt. He stared at the Vietnamese man waiting to see any reaction. The man's eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as he raised his tongs point up toward Darjeeling. "Hey man, no need for Tong War," he told the man as he picked up his tongs and turned his back to him. "Let's get to work, I got things to do and people to see. By the way, what's your name, or is it on your shirt?" he turned and smiled at the muscular man who stood with feet braced and the tongs still raised. Finally, the man smiled back.
"Van," he said, "Like Van Morrison."
"You don't know shit about Van Morrison, more like Van Moron," Darjeeling regretted saying that the moment it came out but it was too late. The two of them didn't talk any more as they finished loading the last trailer. Darjeeling jumped out behind Van. "Hey, Van, see you tomorrow? I got the same duty."
"Same duty tomorrow," was all that Van said, not looking at Darjeeling as he walked toward the group of Vietnamese who were ready to leave Cu Chi base camp for the day.

Guard Mount Cu Chi RVN Part III

As he set the crate of oranges down, he could hear the little people coming. They chattered all the way out the gate and, although Darjeeling didn't understand a word of Vietnamese and never would, he liked the sing-song cadence of the language and their happy voices. He oftened wondered how these people found happiness in these surroundings, but they did. He had to hurry now before they got too close to the cemetery. He reached into the bag that normally would carry his poncho liner that would keep the rain off. He knew he would be freezing without it but this was the only place he could hide his costume. He pulled out the Santa Clause hat and flowing white beard that he had gotten out of a closet at the USO Club. He positioned the crate of oranges in front of him and came to attention just as the Sargeant of the Day lead the little people past the cemetery. He thought that since it was sort of their Christmas and New Year's all rolled into one that he would give them all a present. He had found out in the villages that the Vietnamese loved oranges and so as each one filed past, he reached into the crate and picked up an orange, handing it to them with a hearty HO HO HO. This caused a cacophany of laughter from the little people and they stopped and crowded around as Darjeeling continued on his mission. "Beaucoup dinky-dao," they pointed and laughed at him and covered their mouths with the hand that didn't clutch the precious orange. He knew enough pidgen Vietnamese to know that they meant he was crazy, so he kept up the act. The Sargeant of the Day was flustered but he was laughing, too, to see them having fun and laughing. When everyone had received their orange, Darjeeling handed one to him, too, and said "Merry Christmas, Sarge." As the little people filed on out, they turned every now and then to see him wave and continue to shout HO HO HO. Then, as the sun set, Darjeeling took up the lonely vigil of guarding the spirits and fending off the cold, wondering if the NVA were on their way.

"Darjeeling, the Old Man wants to see you," Platoon Sargeant Tignor was tugging on the sheet at the end of his cot, and Darjeeling was still a little groggy from lack of sleep.

"Which Old Man would that be, Sarge?"

"None of you smart-ass comments, Darjeeling, you need to be at the Batallion Commander's HQ in ten minutes or your ass is grass."

"Am I in hot water, Sarge?"

"I hope so, now get going or I'll have to answer to him myself."

Darjeeling pulled on his fatigues, the same ones he had worn the night before. He made it to the HQ office about five minutes late as he was reminded by the Battalion clerk, a guy they called Guru. He had only been to see Lt. Col. Henry Lipard once before. Henry the Lip, Darjeeling called him, and that was for the time he got a speeding ticket in Dian which he refused to pay at the company level and was referred up the chain of command. Henry the Lip wouldn't let him off the hook for the speeding ticket even though Darjeeling told him that the MP didn't have radar. Guru told him that that speeding ticket had gone into his permanent 201 File. Darjeeling didn't care. After the military formalities were over, there he was in front of the Old Man and sitting next to an aged Vietnamese gentleman who smiled at Darjeeling as he sat down.

"Private Darjeeling, this gentleman is Mr. Tranh, he is the chief elder of the village outside the wire, and he is here to thank you for your generosity to the Vietnamese who work here on the base camp."

Mr. Tranh turned toward Darjeeling and reached out, touching his index finger to Darjeeling's hand. He started talking and Darjeeling wondered if anybody in the room could understand him. He didn't know that Henry the Lip was fluent in Vietnamese.

"Mr. Tranh here says you are known throughout the village as 'The-Man-Who-Guards-Uncle-Ho's Ancestors' and that he had heard that the NVA Division that was heading down the H0-Chi-Minh Trail was diverted away at the last minute. He and the village attribute that diversion to you because of your respect for the villagers and for their ancestors. I, personally, don't think you had one thing to do with that but that is what they believe. What do you think about that, Private?"

"I would like to go home to Kansas now, Sir, my job here is complete." And with that, Darjeeling arose and shook the hand of Mr. Tranh and bowed deeply toward him. After that he turned and saluted Lt. Col. Henry Lipard, turned on his heel and left. Guru was sitting at the desk out front and noticed Darjeeling wiping the tears off of his face.

Guard Mount, Cu Chi RVN 1969 Part II

So Darjeeling looked at Major Foxx, who, along with his sidekick sargeant, was thoroughly drenched in the chilly monsoon rain, with anticipation and a little bit of disdain for the major's shortsightedness in his poorly chosen schedule. There was a bit of compassion, too, because Darjeeling knew that the major would much rather be stationed at the 25th Infantry Division Headquarters in Honolulu, Hawaii. In a show of kindness and respect, Darjeeling reached up, and looking directly into the eyes of Major Foxx with the cold blue steel look of compassion and lovingkindness that was Darjeelings hallmark, put his index finger underneath the necklace of brightly colored beads and with a flick, broke the string that held them, sending them flying into the face of Sargeant Wurmerscherch and onto the parade field around them.

"Sargeant Worm, er Wurmerscherch, Private E-2 Darjeeling will be assigned to guard the cemetery in the middle of the Battalion grounds. This will be his assigned post for guard mount until further notice. Private Darjeeling is further released from attending guard mount and will report directly to his assigned guard post at 1700 hours. Clear?"

"Clear, Sir!" Sargeant Worm saluted and looked down at his clipboard, his entire body shaking from his dislike of Darjeeling and the easy task he had drawn for guard duty. He reached up and brushed the beads off his uniform, turned on his heel and proceeded down the line, he and the major finishing guard mount just as the torrential monsoon rain finished falling. "Guard Mount, dismissed!" the sargeant called out and everyone broke rank to smoke or do whatever they had time to do before guard duty officially began.

Darjeeling picked up his crate of oranges and walked the block or so to the cemetary, setting the crate inside the ancient wrought iron fence that surrounded the twenty or so headstones that made up the roughly forty foot by forty foot cemetery plot. This was a place of serenity for him and he was grateful for his assignment to guard dead relatives of the man who was indirectly trying to put him in his own grave or at least get him out of the country. But what was he guarding them from? Attack by GI's? Attack by VC? He figured he was guarding them to protect the sanctity of their ancestral burial ground, kind of like the raised burial sites of the Souix in America. A place sacred to those who would honor the dead and prevent the living from desecrating that honor. This was the only assignment the US Army gave him that Darjeeling felt was logical and worthwhile. The only other good thing he had done was to order 100,000 clipboards when he was working the supply side for awhile. The order went through all the way to the stateside commander who authorized large quantities of goods for shipment overseas. Darjeeling felt that if everyone had a clipboard like Sargeant Worm, then everyone would feel as important as he and this would create an oveall positive atmosphere in the Army. He was soon transferred out of supply and was placed on permanent guard duty. He had driven a truck for awhile but was relieved of that duty, too. He liked the cushy runs to Ton Son Nut airforce base and Long Binh because they were free-flow runs without any security or protection required. But he had fallen out of grace with the platoon sargeant who really didn't like Darjeeling. It was because of the body count.

Every evening the platoon would fall out of the hooch to hear the Report of the Day given by the platoon sargeant. This report consisted of a listing of killed and missing in action for "freindlies" and "enemies" , two categories that Darjeeling absolutely refused to recognize. Then each driver would receive his assignment for the next day.

"Friendlies - 25 killed in action, 10 marines, 10 US Army, 5 ARVN (Army, Republic of Viet Nam), Enemies - 200 killed in action, 150 VC, 50 NVA. Missing in Action - 2 US Army, 1 US Navy," First Sargeant Tignor called out.

"Hooray! Hooray! For the US of A!" Darjeeling pumped his fist in the air and yelled. Tignor dropped the paperwork from in front of him and glared at Darjeeling.

"Private Darjeeling, what the hell are you doing? Do you find it amusing that these people have died in service of their country?" Tignor looked angrily in disbelief at Darjeeling who gave him the cold blue steel look right back.

"Well, Sargeant Tignor, you read those stats like it was a baseball game or something. Tomorrow could you just refer to them as the Red Sox and the Cubs?" He knew he was asking for it because Tignor's face turned about as red all over as his alcoholic nose always was. Darjeeling took this as a sign of success. Tignor regained his composure and his papers and began reading driving assignments.

"Private March, pick up a load of Class Six at Long Binh; Private Bugner, M151A1 duty hauling visiting dignitaries, make sure your boots are shined, you can look at Private Darjeeling's to see how they are not to look." And on and on the assgnments were given until he arrived at the last driver, Darjeeling, and the last assignment. "Private Darjeeling, hook up with the First of the Twenty Seventh Wolfhounds, hauling Bangalore torpedoes to Fire Support Base Redleg." Just about everyone turned and looked at Darjeeling who was staring at his boots. Finally, he looked up.

"Thanks, Sargeant Tignor, I'll be happy doing my duty by upping the body count for tomorrow's Report of the Day," Darjeeling burned holes through Sargeant Tignor as the group broke up and scattered for the evening. He glared at the sargeant until the sargeant turned smartly on his heels, and smiling, went to turn in his assignment sheet at the headquarters hooch.

"The worst run, the worst load, and now the worst truck. What ya going to do, man?" Darjeeling's friend Hector just stared at him.

"Nothing I can do but drive, Hector, old buddy." Darjeeling made his way to check out the deuce and a half they called Old Gray Mare, the worst truck in the line. He smiled at Sgt. Tignor as he stepped up to the desk. There was an odd look on the sargeant's face this morning.

"Darjeeling, I don't know who you know or who you are related to but your assignment has been diverted for today and you are to report to Major Foxx's HQ asap for further assignment, dismissed." Tignor didn't even look up.

Darjeeling snapped to attention, giving the sargeant a British salute with palm facing outwards. "Suh!" he said and turned on his heels and took off for the hooch. And that is how he had ended up in a series of odd jobs around the battalion area. Jobs such as burning shit out of the latrines; honcho for the "little people", Vietnmese from the town of Cu Chi who worked on base, and ultimately working his way up to bartender of the Officer's Club, where he worked until he was fired for not warning the Officer's of an upcoming tear gassing perped by some of his hoochmates.

Guard Mount, Cu Chi RVN 1969

Everyday the same darn thing. Darjeeling would get ready for guard mount at 4:00 pm. And everyday at 4:00 pm the monsoon rain would come in, drenching the thirty or forty soldiers standing at attention and staring straight ahead until Major Foxx came around and inspected weapons, uniforms, and boots and generally made snide comments to each and every one. All this while it poured down rain on him, his Sargeant of the Day, and every soldier out there. Even the vietnamese dogs had more sense.

Now Darjeeling was not the strackest soldier who had ever worn a uniform. He wasn't even close. Where most everyone else had starched fatigues and spit shined boots, Darjeeling didn't. He pulled his fatigues out of the laundry bag (where the Chinese Laundry had neatly folded them) and he pulled on his boots in the same condition they were in the day before which meant that they were dull and cracked from trying to spit shine them that one time when they were brand new. As he walked the two or so blocks to guard mount, he puffed on a Park Lane. Now a Park Lane was a fabricated marijuana cigarette with a filter. The marijuana in it was the highest grade Thai marijuana and the cigarette tube even had a gold marijuana leaf embossed on the end nearest the filter. You could get Park Lanes in Cho Lon or Saigon proper with a few dollars worth of script or by trade depending on what you had to offer. All you had to do was step up to the cigarette kiosk (they were everywhere) and say, "A pack of Park Lanes, please." and hand the shopkeeper about three dollars of script and you were on your way. Just like buying Pall Malls or Muleburros as Darjeeling called them. Then you could buy this little bottle of essence called Dao Dai Lac and put a drop on the gold leaf for a menthol and other spicey high to boot. Darjeeling liked Park Lanes and the Vietnamese liked selling them to the likes of him. It kept the average GI high enough and provided a nice economic boost to the local economy.

Today Darjeeling had had enough of Guard Mount in the Rain. He had previously done a pretty good Fred Astaire the last time he was on guard mount and had come real close to getting an Article 15 for his performance. He was lucky that Major Foxx was a Fred Head as Darjeeling called him and he actually laughed as Darjeeling cut through the puddles of water, in and out among the other troops standing in line. He used his M-16 for the umbrella handle sans umbrella and used the toe of his boots to splash water on the Sargeant of the Day while dipping and singing and rolling his helmet down his arm, catching it in his hand. Major Foxx grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up to attention suppressing a laugh as he did. "Darjeeling! Grab hold of yourself, man," the Major said as he turned and began guard mount inspection. Darjeeling was lucky that day that the Major was in such good humor. So as he made his way past the mess hall he stopped in and picked up a case of oranges that he had bartered for with the head cook. Hoisting them on his shoulder he walked the final fifty yards to the guard mount area, a concrete slab in the middle of the company area. He took his customary place in the back row and placed the crate of oranges on its end directly behind him nearly out of sight.

Major Foxx was not in a good mood. In fact he was gunning for gigs as everybody said. Any little thing out of place could get you extra duty or even an Article 15. Today he was gigging everybody and even Darjeeling in his euphoric state of mind knew this was serious. He shuddered a bit as he thought that maybe he had made a mistake. "Nah," he thought to himself, "On second thought this will do the old man good, just like Singin' In The Rain." As they lined up, the clouds lined up and as they were called to attention, the rain came to their attention in heavy, cold drops that splatted on them with a vengence from above. Major Foxx and Sargeant Wurmerscherch made their way through the ranks, ever closer to Darjeeling, calling out gigs that Sargeant Worm, as he was called, wrote down on a clipboard of sopping wet paper with a government issue pen that worked about one third of the time. Darjeeling had told The Worm one time that the Army should invent a pen that writes under water. This had brought about the response that the Army had already invented such a pen but that they were unable to requisition them during the Monsoon season and the pens were therefore unauthorized. The Worm was now in front of Darjeeling. The Worm was a German with a German accent. Darjeeling had once accused him of being in the Luftwaffe which had caused the portly sargeant to give Darjeeling the privilege of changing flat tires on deuce-and-a-half trucks for two weeks. Backbreaking work in the heat of the day. It did nothing but strengthen Darjeeling's resolve. He vowed to bring the sargeant to his senses or his knees whichever came first.

"Darjeeling!"
"Yes, Sir Major Foxx, Sir!" Darjeeling saluted as he looked at the two of them who now resembled Zorror and his side kick Pancho from the old Zorro TV series he had seen as a kid.
"Sargeant Wurmerscherch, write this man down for the following: Unauthorized hippie beads, unshined boots, unkempt fatigues, sideburns too long, mustache drooping below the corners of the mouth, and bringing an unauthorized crate of oranges to guard mount."
"Yes, Sir Major Foxx, Sir!" Pancho echoed.
"Darjeeling, take off those unauthorized hippie love beads right now. And what is with the oranges, if I might ask?"
"Sir, these aren't hippie love beads, these are special beads that bring rain sir. See how good they work? And the crate of oranges is for the little people, sir, as gifts. I was hoping to get to guard the cemetery again, sir, if you don't mind."

Major Foxx knew what Darjeeling was talking about. Smack dab in the middle of the 25th Supply and Transportation Battalion area was the family cemetery of none other than Ho Chi Minh, Uncle Ho as he was known, and every day the Vietnamese who worked in the battalion area filed past the cemetery on their way out to the main gate. Uncle Ho's ancestors were buried their and every year during the season of Tet, or Lunar New Year, the Viet Cong vowed to come and take back the land of the remains of Ho Chi Minh's people. This guard mount was significant because it was the beginning of Tet and rumor had it that a division of North Vietnamese Army regulars were making their way down the trail toward Cu Chi like they had done in the Tet Offensive of '68. Major Foxx had been there and he shivered as he remembered the outcome that year ago when he was just a captain. He looked at Darjeeling. He knew that Darjeeling was high. And yet, there was something about the young man that he liked even though he knew that Darjeeling was the epitome of the bad soldier. Worse than Beetle Bailey, worse than Sad Sack, Darjeeling could be the knew comic book inspiration of sloppy soldiering.