Back in Gabe's abode

”God, that was a storm to remember.  The eeriest thing was the brown, green, and yellow clouds that were blowing in from that little bay.  It was like nothing I had ever seen before.”

“The only other time I’d seen something like that was in Viet Nam,” Gabe offered.  

Jack perked up as soon as he heard Viet Nam mentioned.

“Tell me more, Gabe.”

Gabe regarded Jack cautiously, before he said, “You know I don’t really want to talk about that.”

“I know, Gabe, but maybe it would do us both some good.”  A long pause ensued as they both sipped on the Weed.  Finally, Jack dug into his back pocket and handed a couple of yellowed pages of hand written notes to Gabe, who accepted them warily.  

Breaking the silence, Gabe said with wonder in his voice,” These are my letters to you from Viet Nam.  I can’t believe you saved them all these years.”  

Jack nodded and said, “Maybe now is a good time to talk about it.”

  Gabe blinked, holding the papers as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to throw them away or look at them.  Finally, he read the first one aloud:

Tet of 1967.  My unit was sent out to take hill 327 during operation Cochise.  It was just another hill thought to be a VC encampment.  We were dropped from helicopters in the jungle about a klick from the hill and proceeded on foot to take it.  As it turned out nobody wanted the hill until we got there.

With no enemy in sight, we were ordered to set up a perimeter and dig in for the duration.  We dug two man fox holes using folding, entrenching tools and filling sand bags using the dirt dug out of the holes.  These holes were home for the next 31 days and nights.

The days weren't so bad.  We ate in our holes, kept watch, and went out on patrols.  Occasional firefights were the rule.  Constant heat, off and on rain, and poor sanitation contributed to body lice, diarrhea, and jungle rot.  Talk about a bunch of pissed off guys!

Then would come the nights.  It would seem as though everybody in the world wanted our hill.  Mortars, rockets, and hit and run tactics against our perimeter would happen sporadically throughout.

So much more happened here, I just don’t want to write anymore about; I’ll tell you over many drinks some day.

Your brother, Gabe.

Gabe stared off into space and then returned to the next letter and read that one aloud:

We crossed the Pacific Ocean on a ship and hit the beach in Viet Nam in July, 1966.   Night fanfare and a few rockets and mortar rounds were there to greet us.  Temperature and humidity in the 100 degree range and giant Minnesota mosquitoes, lizards, and snakes were also on hand.

All of these things dictated certain sanitations to avoid dysentery, jungle fever, malaria, and a few others.  This is where we first learned about the joyous duty of burning shitters.

We had above ground out houses which could not be placed over a hole in the ground.  Instead, a flap type of door on the rear of the structure gave access to the space under the holes.  In this space were 55 gallon drums cut in half and placed under each hole.  These drums contained 1/3 diesel fuel and 2/3 of, well, you know what.

A detail of young privates would then pull the drums out twice a week and light this odiferous mass and then using long 
sticks would stir until only ash remained.  What a treat!

On a lighter note, two young lads we referred to as Salt & Pepper who had spent the entire shipboard time in the brig joined us on burning detail.  They offered to do the officers territory because none of the rest of the enlisted men wanted to.  They got to the officers territory and immediately tossed burning rags down the holes without first removing the drums.  A beautiful blaze, easily visible across the entire camp was greeted by cheers from some and jeers from those of higher rank.  Needless to say, Salt & Pepper did some more brig time.

One last thing, Bro.  Don’t come over here, no matter what!

Gabe handed the letters back to Jack.

“You got anymore of these?”

“No.  Those were the only two you ever wrote me, so I saved them and figured you would want to talk some day.”  

“Well, a little more to drink, and we’ll talk about it.”  He poured two fingers of the Weed into each glass.  It was beginning to taste better all the time to Jack.