White Flares

This is an excerpt from Viet Nam Body Count, Chapter 21
...Barry plopped next to me, while I sat on the deck with my back against the Helo hangar. I stared westward to the beach and hills that had beckoned us to relax earlier in the day and saw streams of light that preceded automatic gun fire. “Wow! Did you see that?” I whispered excitedly.

“Yup,” he replied, “Those are tracers. Every fifth round in those rifles glows red hot and allows the soldiers to see where they’re shooting.”

Fascinated by the scene before me, I replied, “I know that. But it looks like a ray gun from a science fiction movie, especially when they shoot from the helicopters.”

We sat cross legged on the deck, our backs against the bulkhead, watching the black jungle light up like a college football field at night. The white flares effectively removed the night's black curtain defense, exposing human targets on both sides. I worried that the tracers were exposing our guys to the enemy.

“It really pisses me off knowing that we are mere pawns in Reardon's game of 'Who can make Captain first',” I said, staring out at the illuminated jungle. “He doesn't care if he exposes us like the flares do, so long as he reaches his ... ”

Boom! We both jumped up.

“What the fuck was that?” Barry yelled.

We’d been hit. We ran to the safety lines, leaned over and searched the side of the ship for damage. Seeing none, I looked up towards the bridge and saw Captain Reardon's silhouette, in the moonlight, tossing something over the side of the ship. Another Boom!

Barry shook his head and said, “It's the fuckin captain playing warrior with his percussion grenades. He claims that he’s making sure that no unseen Viet Cong divers put explosives under the ship. But he’s just fucking around with his toys. Maybe, ya’ll ought to go up to the captain and offer to teach him how to draw naked ladies instead of playing with grenades.”

“Oh how I wish I could, Barry,” I said as we sat back down. “Maybe he would see life differently.”

“I bet he never took an art class and never drew naked ladies,” he said. “An art class might’ve made him more like a real human being, respecting the beauty of life.”

“His ambition has blinded him from beauty,” I said. “Now he only sees body count numbers. And that scares me more than those guns firing in that jungle.”... 

http://www.amazon.com/Viet-Body-Count-Mushroom-Montoya/dp/1484132823/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1375476082&sr=1-1&keywords=mushroom+montoya

And at BarnesandNoble.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/viet-nam-body-count-mushroom-montoya/1115883930?ean=9781484132821

Memorial Day

Memorial Day brings memories

And grief

For the families of our service members

Who never came home.

Their deaths

Sting and hurt
Their parents

Each and every day
I honor those families

Today, especially today.

I went to my cousin’s funeral.

She was a week shy of 93.

We buried her

Next to her son’s grave.

He died in Viet Nam.

I stood where I stood

So many years ago,

At his gravesite service.

Memories of our own son’s funeral

On the Long Beach Naval Station’s chapel

Enveloped me with sadness.

I could still hear the bagpipes

Playing Amazing Grace.
Parents and family members suffer

Every single day

The loss of their children,

Our service men and women,

More keenly, 

And forever.

Today, I honor them, as well.

Clothes Locker

       I reported for duty aboard the USS Trippe DE1075 on a cold and windy March afternoon 1972. The Officer of the Deck welcomed me with a smile. My dress blue bell-bottoms fluttered in the wind as I shivered. The aroma, a mixture of diesel fuel, wet paint, and floor wax, filled my nostrils. 

       A member of the Repair Gang arrived and led me down to our berthing compartment. I hoisted my seabag on my shoulder. I was surprised how awkward I felt carrying it down the ladders. The berthing compartment seemed cramped and far too small for the 21 racks that I quickly counted. The compartment couldn’t have been much bigger than 20 feet by 15 feet. 

       As I walked in, I could smell Kiwi shoe polish and burning metal from the welding equipment in the adjacent repair shop. My shoes clanked on the green vinyl tiled deck that had recently been waxed and buffed. The bulkheads were painted bright white. 

       My shipmate told me I had the rack above his, the top rack of three. It didn’t have storage underneath it, like the two lower racks did. I asked my shipmate where I could put my clothes. He pointed to the bottom locker on the bulkhead that, at first glance, appeared to be half the size of my sea bag. I stared at my sea bag and wondered how I was supposed to fit it and its contents into that tiny locker. Somehow, I managed. 

       We had been taught how to fold our uniforms so that they could fit in tight spaces. I still fold my t-shirts the same way.

Phone Call To Mom from Subic (an excerpt from Chapter 41 - Viet Nam Body Count)

In honor of Mother’s Day, I am posting a segment of one of my phone calls from the phone exchange in Subic Bay in 1972.

“Are you going to church on Sundays?” my mother asked.

            “Mom, there's no church on the ship, there is not even room for a chapel.”

            “I know that.  But aren't you in the Philippines?  I know they have a church there.  It's a Catholic country.”

            “OK, Mom.  If I'm here on Sunday.  Did you get my last letter?  I included a photo of me in the ship's repair shop.  It's for Jeremy.  What was his reaction when you gave it to him?”

            “Cochino!  I can't give that to him.” [cochino means nasty or obscene in Spanish]

            “Why not?”  I asked, “Why are you calling me cochino?”

            “Your picture shows you sitting in front of posters of naked ladies.  Cochino! I can't give that photo to your baby.”
            “Mom, I didn't se...”  I stopped talking. My face got hot as I remembered where we shot that photo: in our ship’s repair shop with Playboy, Oui and Penthouse centerfolds plastered on the bulkheads.

            My mother was laughing.  She had a way of setting me up to tease me.  She did it again.

            “I'll cut out the naked ladies and give him the picture,” she said.  “Cochino!”  She laughed again.

            Click, click, “Excuse me, this is your one minute warning.” Click, click. 

            “The operator just cut in telling me that my time is up. I gotta go.  Love you, Mom.  Tell everyone I love 'em.”

        “I love you, too.  Cochino!  Go to mass on Sunday.” Click, click.  Her laughter was the last thing I heard before the line went dead.

Phoning Home, an excerpt from Chapter 41 - Viet Nam Body Count.

We had to wait until we reached Subic Bay, Philippines, before we could make a phone call when we were fighting in Viet nam. We made our phone calls from the phone exchange building on base.

            Norman and I walked down the ship's gang plank and half way across the Navy base to the Subic Bay telephone exchange.  The mugginess of the night air oozed drops of sweat down my back.  My heart ached in anticipation of hearing my two year old son's voice.  As we walked under a grove of tall trees, I leaned over toward Norman and asked,  “Are you going to call your parents or your girlfriend?” 

            His eyebrows shot up as he replied, “Linda, of course.  I know you're calling home.”

            “You bet I am.  I want to talk to my son.” 

            “Will he recognize your voice?  You've been away for a long time in that kid's life.”

            Norman's words stung.  I hadn't seen my son since I came on board, five months ago, nor spoken to him since we set out to sea, 3 months ago.  The little one story, white stucco telephone exchange with its red clay tile roof reminded me of the Spanish style houses back home, making me more homesick than ever.  Cigarette smoke billowed out of the entry to the telephone exchange.  It seemed as if everyone, waiting to make a phone call, puffed on a cigarette.  Since I didn't smoke, I took a seat near the open door. While we waited for a phone booth to become available, we overheard half the conversation from the phone booth closest to us.

            “Hi Mom.  How are you?  I'm fine.”  A huge smile lit up the sailor's face as he talked on the phone.  “No.  The food isn't as good as yours, but it's healthy enough.  Yes, they give us fresh milk.” His eyes brows scrunched together. His mother must have said him something he didn't want to hear. Tilting his head into the phone, he blew cigarette smoke slowly while holding his cigarette next to his temple.  “I can't tell you that over the phone.  I don't know how long we'll be here.  Thanks.  I appreciate that.”  Rolling his eyes, he said, “Yes, mom, I pray every night...”

            Norman tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to the sailor that we were eavesdropping on and said, “Sometimes it seems as if every mother has the same script that they say on the phone.  I betcha that if I called home, that I would be saying that same exact thing to my mom.”

            “You've got to admit, Norman, that our being out here scares the hell out of our parents.  Hell, it scare me.”

            “Yeah, that's for shua.” Norman said with his Boston accent.  “But what bugs me most is that we've got to be careful not to say anything over the phone that the censors won't like.”

            “I want so badly to tell my dad about blowing up the church,” I said.  “Maybe he'd have an idea about what to do?”

            Norman grabbed my arm, pulled me closer to him and whispered, “Don't even think about opening your mouth about that.  The censors will cut your call and throw your ass in the brig so fast, you'll think that you started to make your call in the brig.  You’re better off talking to your dad about the whores in Olongapo.”

            “I won't talk to my dad about whores, my brother maybe.  I bet the censors will be getting horny listening to you talk to your girlfriend,” I said.

            “Fuck 'em.  Let 'em beat their meat while they listen, I don't give a fuck.” 

            I heard the operator say, “Montoya to booth number four, Montoya to booth number four.”...