This book deals with my own awakening to the reality of war and the moral questions that war raises. Fighting in war is a messy and bloody business. We face a moral dilemma with our first kill. We are all taught that hurting people and certainly killing people is wrong. When we are put into a position where killing is "necessary", our moral compass goes haywire and we have to deal with it, not only in that moment, but for the rest of our lives.
With a "tour" to Viet Nam on each one. Tour sounds like such a nice term, but it wasn't nice.
When I was in the Navy, and part of the repair gang for the USS Trippe, one of my jobs, as a Hull Maintenance Technician, was to be the ship's plumber. A ship's plumbing and a house's plumbing are similar, but not the same. I had been trained in Damage Control school and on the ship. I earned my training by getting lots of practice clearing clogged pipes. My knuckles smashed into steel bulkheads, and metal decks more often than anyone should endure. But that is how learning takes place sometimes. My fingers and knuckles would have preferred to play the guitar.
Chief Landry, who was known as the Hulk, did not like me. He didn't like any non-white underling. But he did have his qualities. He was an excellent plumber. One day he sent me to the head (In the old sailing-ship days, the sailors peed and pooped at the head of the ship because the crew did not want the wind to push the farts into their noses. So, bathrooms on Navy ships are called heads.) The Chief sent me to the forward head on the 3rd deck to fix the clogged pipe that drained the urinals. This was not a bad job, I've had worse. Soon after I removed an elbow that would allow me to insert a snake, Chief Landry showed up, all smiles. I sensed a smirk, hidden in his teeth. He watched me insert the snake and pull it out. The paper and tobacco that the snake brought out of the pipe; fell into a bucket I had placed under the open pipe.
Chief Landry first asked me if I thought that the tobacco was really marijuana. When I told him I wouldn’t know, he glared at me, “I know you know, so, don’t give me that bullshit,” he said. And then he asked me to run the water before I replaced the elbow. As the water poured into the bucket, he appeared to put his finger in the water and then licked it. I was grossed out. "Urine is sterile," he said. "You should put your finger in the wastewater and taste it, after you have cleared the drain, to make sure that the water is clear."
I knew he was hoping I would follow his lead. And I also suspected that he used a dry finger to lick. He was hoping I was dumb enough to lick wastewater from the urinals. I shook my head and said that I would not do it. He left.
Chief Landry was not a nice man. The Viet Nam war was bad enough. He made it worse. In spite of that, I saved his life or at least prevented him from great physical harm when I found him surrounded by an angry mob of my African American shipmates in a bar in Mombasa, Kenya. But that's another story unrelated to plumbing.
I’m grateful for my bed, happy it’s not the rack on the USS Trippe, where I slept during the war, in its tiny berthing compartment, that I shared with 21 shipmates. I prayed each night in Viet Nam, wishing I was having a nightmare, hoping I would wake up in my own bedroom, back home. None of us woke up the next morning from the nightmare.
When our ship visited
Karachi, Pakistan, I witnessed a truck
drive slowly down a Karachi street, along a park. The truck stopped. A man got
out of the passenger side and began kicking the people who were sleeping. I
asked our driver why. He told me to watch. If the truck person kicked someone
and they moved, he walked to the next person. If the person he kicked did not move, he
called for the driver, who got out of the truck and helped toss the body into
the truck. My heart sank. They were picking up the people who died without a bed, on the street, during the
night.
I am grateful for my
bed. I get to share it with the woman I cherish. Our bedroom is bigger than the
berthing compartment I shared with 21 shipmates.
Black and Bitter Navy Coffee
by Mushroom Montoya
I sat in a barber’s chair.
The barber buzzing off my hair,
Removing my civilian status
On my first day in bootcamp.
I was not the only one, of course.
The barbers’ chairs were full
Of young men, boys, really,
All of us losing our identity.
Red, black, blond, and brown hair
Floated down from our heads,
Landing softly all around
Each black and chrome barber’s chair.
The barber next to me
Removed the black fabric drape
From the newly shorn recruit,
And left to take a break.
He came back to his station,
Holding two Styrofoam cups,
Filled to the brim
With hot black coffee.
He lifted my drape
Exposing my hand
And handed me
One of the Styrofoam cups.
“I don’t drink coffee,”
I complained to no avail.
“Yer in the Navy now.
That’s all they give us to drink.”
I hoped he was joking.
But I suspected he wasn’t.
He bellowed a command,
“Drink before it gets cold!
Don’t let it go to waste.
I’m doing ya a favor.
I made a fresh pot, myself,
So, drink up, it’s free.”
My own barber silenced his clippers
And accepted the other cup.
He took a sip before resuming removing my hair.
I took a sip out of the Styrofoam cup.
Fresh cut shards of hair,
Freed by the barber’s clippers,
Flung off my head,
Flew into my cup of coffee
That was mean and bitter
With no cream or sugar
To sweeten the insult
Of losing my identity.
“Drink up!” my own barber yelled.
As my own hair floated
Inside my Styrofoam cup
Of black and bitter Navy coffee.
Philippine Doppelganger
by Mushroom Montoya
“Wow! You were great on the guitar
Last night in the Mania Bar.”
I stared at my shipmate
Wondering what mischief
Wondering what trick
He was attempting to play.
I didn’t have a guitar
And I was never in a bar
Last night.
I pulled back my blanket,
Climbed down from my rack,
And stared at his goofy smile,
Still wondering all the while,
What he was up to.
“I saw you playing the guitar
With that Filipino band
In the Manila Bar
On main street.”
I told him I’d had duty.
I never left our ship.
I suggested we go tonight.
I knew it would foil his trick.
We strolled into the Manila Bar
Two pretty, young ladies
Took our hands
And lead us to a table.
“You buy me drink?’
The mini-skirted, bright red lipped
Lady of the evening
Requested with a smile.
“I will if you drink
One of the two I buy for myself.
She nodded and giggled
And left to bring my beer.
I knew her glass
Would be as beerless
As she was braless
In her tiny revealing miniskirt.
The band came on stage
My shipmate stood and pointed
“How can that be
You are there and
You are here by me?”
My beard was thicker
His hair was longer
Our size and weight
Were about the same.
When the band took its break
The band member stared
And pointed at me
And stared at him.
The whole band came to our table
Staring and pointing
Their mouths declaring,
Wow’s and awes.
We sat across from each other
Or could we say ourselves
Staring into a mirror
That moved on its own.
He didn’t speak English.
I didn’t speak Tagalog.
So we just stared at each other
And smiled.
I gave him my glasses,
The band roared with laughter,
My shipmate looked stunned,
The ladies giggled
And sipped their fake alcoholic drinks.
They offered to let me play
On my doppelganger’s guitar.
I wish at hadn’t declined,
For then my shipmate
Would have seen the future.
Ice Cream in Chicago
By Mushroom Montoya
Anticipation jumps up and down
The tunnels in my stomach,
Hanging on bungee cords
From my overly taut shoulders,
Fighting with them
To calm down
A notch
Or two.
The bones in my butt cheeks
Press like cinder blocks
Against the cold gray metal chair.
Where I sit with hope jiggling in my gut.
A tall skinny airman,
Clipboard in hand,
Calls out the names
Of sailors, soldiers, and airmen.
One by one they stand
And float out of the waiting room
Wearing happy traveler smiles
On their way out the departure door.
Only one seat is left
I could get bumped off the flight
If any sailor, soldier, or airman
Shows up
With official travel orders.
The clock’s tic toccing on the wall
Is teasing me with the question:
Is anyone with travel orders
About to walk through the door
And bump you?
I sit all alone in the waiting room
Accompanied only by empty chairs,
Like mouths of baby birds
Waiting to be fed.
The giant metal bird rumbles
Outside, in the cold
Pulling on its leash
Eager to fly away to Chicago
Thirty tic toc seconds left
I stare at the entry door
Praying no sailor, soldier, or airman
Runs in at the last second,
With travel orders.
My name is finally called.
I heave a sigh
And stand up and run
To the big metal bird.
The doors clank closed.
My seatbelt clicks snug.
The giant metal bird
Loudly vibrates its flight.
After sitting backward
For nearly two hours
In the cavernous belly
Of a military cargo jet
The doors open
And pour me and the others out
Onto the tarmac
On an early March afternoon.
George Roby,
My sailor buddy,
Arrives with his smile
Filling the interior of his car.
He takes me to his parent’s house,
And leads me down to the basement
He asks, “What kind of ice cream
Would you like for your birthday?”
“I am not picky
I’ll take whatever you have?”
His laughter is so contagious
I am laughing at I don’t know what.
He opens the door
Exposing a standup freezer
Filled to the top
With half gallon boxes of ice cream.
My eyes pop wide open,
Followed by my mouth.
He asks me once again,
“What flavor would you like?”
I scan the huge variety
And point asking if THAT one is open
He removes an unopened half gallon
Of Rocky Road ice cream.
He opens the box.
Plunks a big metal spoon
Into the middle of the Rocky Road ice cream
“You have a week to finish it,”
He laughs and grabs his own
Half gallon box of ice cream
And directs me to sit down
On one of two oversized stools.
We dig in our spoons,
Like little boys,
Laughing and eating
All the ice cream we want.
