Excerpt from Viet Nam Body Count, Chapter 9
“I wonder if Chief Jaffe knows that we call him the Hulk,” I said while holding on to the repair locker’s steel door with one hand and looking down at Barry. I stood in the white interior passageway at our battle station adjacent to the forward repair locker. I balanced myself by spreading my legs apart as the ship slithered over the ocean’s swells.
“Sit down,” Barry said. “You can bet your ass that
the chief knows that he’s called the Hulk. There’s a lot of power in a name.”
He waited for me to sit down before he continued. “A nickname has more power in
defining who you are than a military title. General Patton was called, Old
Blood and Guts. What does that tell ya?”
“It tells me that the Hulk could be my worst
nightmare,” I said.
“You got that right,” Barry said. He squirmed in
his pants as he sat next to me on the shiny white and green checkered linoleum
deck. He wrinkled his face, stood up, and scratched his crotch. “Right now, my
crotch is killing me. That ointment the doc gave me ain't stopping this crotch
rot from itching like crazy.”
“Maybe you ought to consider changing your
underwear more often.” I said.
“Hell, I'm changing my shorts twice a day as it
is,” he said as he unzipped his pants and pulled his white cotton Navy issue
boxer shorts down his pant leg as far as they would go. “It's so fucking humid
out here.” He re-zipped his pants and sat back down next to me.
“How long have you had crotch rot?”
“The first time I got it I was on the riverboats,”
Barry said. “I thought the ointment they gave me cured it. But, shit. It's
back. The doc told me to use lots of powder and to sleep naked. It'd be more
fun sleeping naked with a girl instead you fuckers.”
“I'm just glad you
aren't sleeping next to me,” I said.
Barry rolled his eyes. “What are you talking
about? It’s so humid that half the crew sleeps naked already.” He poked me in
the ribs. “Even you.”
“The Hulk and I are not the only ones with
nicknames,” I said. “I heard Bruce call you, tóc đỏ me or something like that,” I said.” What's that
all about?”
“That’s a nickname I got on the riverboats,” Barry
said. “It's Vietnamese for windy redhead or some shit like that.”
“Why did they give you that name?”
Pulling the crotch of his pants out to a point, he
said, “cause of this big pecker.”
“That little thing?”
“Actually, it was because I have red hair and
because I was the communications guy.” Barry said as he scratched his crotch
again and then sat with his legs spread wide apart. “Ya know, I never really
thought about it that much. Maybe I just liked the sound of it.” He closed his
eyes and said, Tóc đỏ
me e, accentuating the second e sound. His eyes sprang wide open. “Now I
remember. It doesn’t mean windy redhead; it means American redhead.” He looked
up at the overhead. “How could I forget that?” He put the soles of his feet
together and moved them back to keep his crotch spread out. He wiggled his butt
on the deck maneuvering himself to face me. “How about you?” he asked, “How’d
ya get named Mushroom?”
“I got it when I was in “A” school,” I said.
“Really?” he asked with a taunt in his voice. He
held out his thumb and index finger in front of his squinting eyes as if he
were measuring something very small. “Did the school give you that name because
your teensy weensy pecker is like a teensy weensy mushroom?”
A hint of irritation joined my response, “Do you
want to know or not?”
“What “A” school did ya’ll go to?”
“Since the Navy merged Damage Control rate and the
Shipfitter rate to make the Hull Maintenance Technician rate, a school didn’t
exist yet. The Navy sent me to Damage Control school in Treasure Island, in the
San Francisco Bay. I arrived there, with shoulder length hair, wearing my
uniform.”
“With long hair, in uniform? Were you crazy?”
“I must’ve been, but not as crazy as they were,” I
said. “They made me get four haircuts before they processed me in.”
“That doesn’t sound so crazy,” Barry said.
“That’s not the crazy part. On the first day of
school, we all met in a large classroom in Austin Hall, the Damage Control
school. The officer in charge, a lieutenant, called role alphabetically, but he
skipped my name until the end. He asked me to come to the front of the
classroom.”
“I bet you were going to get your ass whipped.”
“That's what I thought, Barry. I was nervous as
hell. I figured that the lieutenant was going to punish me and use me as an
example to warn the rest of the sailors not to show up with long hair while
wearing a Navy uniform.”
“So, what did he do to ya’ll.”
“To my surprise the lieutenant shook my hand and
said, ‘You’re the senior ranking enlisted man here. That makes you the class
leader. These 35 sailors are your responsibility. Make sure that they perform
well.’ Now that’s crazy.”
“Get outta here! No shit?” Barry said. “Hell, if I
had shown up in uniform, with shoulder length hair, they would have had me
swabbing the fuckin decks for the whole time I was in school.”
I told Barry that the lieutenant told me to march
my guys to the mess decks for breakfast and get them back to Austin Hall by
07:30. I hadn't marched for nearly 3 years.
“While I was preoccupied trying to remember any
marching commands, the lieutenant asked me who I had picked for an assistant.
He caught me off guard. I had only met a few of the recruits the night before.
I had no idea who to choose. Rick, a guy who shared my room, looked at me with
eyes that said, ‘Pick me, pick me.’ So, I did.”
“Was he any good?” Barry asked.
“Not really. Rick did a good job as an assistant,
as long as I didn’t leave him in charge of the other students. No one would
listen to him. He didn't have enough personal power.”
“Ya, I’ve known some officers like that,” Barry
said.
“BAM!” My stomach tensed when our five inch gun
shot off its first of several 75 pound rounds, one level above us. The repeated
rounds made the deck under our butts feel as if we were sitting in the bed of a
pickup truck driving over some bumps on a dirt road.
“For as much as hated being on the river boats,”
Barry said. “I prefer being able to see what we’re shooting rather than being
stuck down here in this passageway.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said. I wanted
to get my mind off the bombing. “Let me get back to my story.”
“When the lieutenant finished with the orientation
and walked out the door, I stood up and looked at the 35 young men that were
now my responsibility. ‘Let's go eat breakfast.’ I said. They walked out of the
classroom and assembled themselves, in formation, facing the entrance of the
Austin Hall. They stood there waiting for me to call out the marching orders. I
couldn't recall any marching commands.”
“None?” Barry asked, his eyebrows arching up.
“Ya’ll must've looked like a fuckin idiot.”
“I felt like one,” I said. “I looked over at Rick
and unfortunately asked a little too loudly, ‘How do I get them started?’ A big
grin emerged on Rick's face. I can tell you now, I didn’t like that grin. When
I looked back at my crew they all had that same big grin. My own embarrassment
kept me from remembering any of the marching commands.”
Barry slapped his thigh and laughed. “I wish I
could’ve seen your face.”
“I’m sure it was beet red,” I said. “I tried to
stand up straight. I looked at the group. ‘Alright, you guys. I'm getting
hungry,’ I said. ‘We have to march to the mess hall. So you will have to bear
with me until I get a hang of this marching thing.’”
“If I’d been there, I would’ve given you shit,”
Barry said.
“Your double must’ve been there, Barry. He yelled
from the middle of the group, ‘But you’re our leader. You’re supposed to know
how to march.’ ”
“I explained that I had just re-enlisted after
having been out of the Navy for two and a half years. Rick still had his shit
eating grin when he suggested, ‘Try, forward march.’
“I did. The entire class took about three steps
toward me. ‘Stop!’ I yelled and laughed. ‘OK, OK, let's try this again.’ I
turned to Rick. ‘How do I get them to turn?’
“‘Say, About face. Then say 'Forward march' to get
them moving.’
“‘About face. Forward march!’ They moved in
unison. I started feeling better until we came to the next street. I needed
them to turn left, so I yelled ‘Turn left!’ The kept on marching and giggling.
‘Stop!’ I yelled. They kept on marching. I felt like Lucille Ball in the candy
factory episode.”
Barry turned to look at me with a big grin, “Ya’ll
have got to be making this up.”
“Believe me, this stupid war and the noise from
our guns have killed any ability I might have to make anything up.
“My buttocks started to tingle. I stood up and
stretched. Barry stood up and adjusted his boxers once again. We sat across the
passageway from each other on the polished green and white checkered deck.
Barry nodded his head from me to continue.
“My guys were still marching down the road
laughing,” I said. “If my new assistant's grin were any wider, his tonsils
would have been showing. Rick told me to yell, “halt.” Which I did. And thank
God they stopped. Then he said, ‘Then say “About face.” Follow that with
“Forward march.” When we get to the street, say “Right Face.” One more thing,
whenever you see a bollard, a trash can or any anything in our way, call out,
‘Dempsey Dumpster, hut! They’ll march to the left or right avoiding whatever is
in the way. That's not an official marching command, but it works.’ I managed
to march them to the mess hall, with a lot of laughing and giggling. Rick gave
me the rundown on marching commands while we ate our breakfast. It was a whole
lot easier marching them back to Austin Hall.”
“What did ya’ll learn in HT school, besides
marching orders?” Barry asked.
“We spent the first week learning how to put out
all kinds of fires: oil fires, electrical fires and wood fires. One day, while
I was holding the nozzle, the hose sprung a big leak and collapsed. A loud
voice behind me yelled, ‘Hold on tight!’ And they dragged me out of the smoke
filled room on my butt.”
“Was that a real fire?” Barry asked.
“Hell yeah! And it scared the hell out of us. That
fire burned hot. The instructor had placed me right in front, holding the fire
nozzle. After that first week's fire training, we had earned liberty. We went
into San Francisco after class on Friday.”
“Did ya’ll go into town to get laid?” Barry asked,
“When I was there, I sure did, Hoo! Wee!” He pursed his lips. “This is a nice
story and all, but what does it have to do with how you got your name?”
“Let me finish my story and you’ll see,” I said.
“Before we could go on liberty we had to stand inspection. When the officer got
to one of the guys, he said, ‘You look like you’re wearing mascara, son, do a
better job of washing your eyes after firefighting class.’ It was hard not to
laugh. The day before, we were practicing putting out oil fires. The soot clung
to our skin like shoe polish adhered to our shoes. It refused to leave without
a lot of soap and hard scrubbing. Eliminating the mascara look was as difficult
as giving a cat a bath and almost as painful.”
“I can only imagine,” Barry said.
“I marched my men back to the barracks after our
last class,” I said. “After we arrived at the barracks, I asked everyone to
meet me in the lobby at 16:00 so that I could give them last minute
instructions before we went into town. While we waited for the rest of the
class to assemble, a few were already drinking beer from the beer machine in
the lobby. When the whole crew got to the lobby, I gave them safety guidelines
to follow while in San Francisco. I reminded them that they were not allowed to
go more than 25 miles beyond the base or get drunk. I told them that we were
only given “Cinderella liberty” and they had to be back in the barracks no
later than midnight.
“‘Why midnight?’ one of them sarcastically asked.
‘Will we turn into pumpkins?’
“‘No, but you’ll feel like Cinderella when you
lose your liberty next weekend and have to spend your time cleaning Austin
Hall,’ I said.
“I turned and began walking away. One of my men
wanted to ask me a question but he’d forgotten my name. He yelled the two words
written on the back of my tee-shirt, ‘Magic Mushroom! Wait! I need to ask you
question.’
I gave Barry a toothy smile and said, “That's how
I got my name.”
Barry grinned and said, “That's a good story. But
I just can't help thinking that ya’ll made the whole damn thing up.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” I said. “It’s a
name that fits me like skin. I like it.”
“Like I said, there’s a lot of power in a name,” Barry said. “And I don’t rightly know what kind of shit your name is going to do for you. Magic is one name that, by itself, might not be too bad. But when you combine it with Mushroom, I can guarantee that the Hulk ain’t gonna like it.”
