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- Thread starter cincibuck
- Start date
Taosman
Your Cousin In New Mexxico
from "Smoke Signals"
How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? Or divorcing, or not divorcing, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? Or divorcing, or not divorcing, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
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Why would a forgiveness be necessary? because of one's own insecurities?Taosman;1264968; said:
Nah...
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cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
September 20, 1968, THE REPO DEPOT
We rolled into the compound at 90th Replacement Detachment (Reh poe deh poe),
the Rep-o-Depot, and were soon sorted into barracks, told to drop our gear on a cot and gather for the first briefing. A large open shelter filled with a dozen neatly spaced picnic tables awaited us. Taking our places, we were handed a stack of forms to fill out. A captain came in to welcome us to Vietnam -- gee, thanks -- and told us that we would be in and out of this place in a matter of days, maybe hours. "I'm in conctact with your receiving units so as soon as we've completed your orientation and your new unit sends transportation you'll be on your way. A team will be here from finance. I want you to take any greenbacks you have in your possession and turn them over to them. They'll give you MPCs, Military Pay Certificates. Once you leave here possession of greenbacks is a court martial offense. Don't screw around with it. Command takes a very dim view of guys with greenbacks."
We filled out our pay forms, income tax forms, insurance forms, mail forms and then exchanged our money. That was followed by a series of "scare" presentations, some in slides, some with films. Snakes, bugs, booby traps, prostitutes, land mines, malaria and sunburn followed in rapid and graphic order. VD and sunburn also turned out to be court martial offenses.
In between the presentations we were given breaks during which the resident ?old timers? would descend upon us FNGs (Fucking New Guys, I now discovered) and fill us in on the "real poop." The stuff the brass doesn't want us to know about:
"There's a VD strain called 'the black siph.' Really bad shit, turns your genitals black before they rot and fell off."
"They've got an island out in the Pacific that no one knows about, that's where they keep all the GI's with black siph. They tell your family you're MIA."
"The VC have whores who keep razor blades in their vagina. One guy I know was lucky, he felt it before he shoved it all the way; shot the bitch with his M-16 then put it on atuo and emptied the magazine on her."
We were still wobbly from the flight and thus an easy target. Our defenses against such nonsense had been worn out. Our suspicion that we would all die here one way or another had been confirmed.
Finally the training day came to an end. The enlisted men were told where to find the mess hall and the officers were given a choice of eating in the mess or the O club.
I choose the O club. It was a short walk from my barracks, just a few buildings down from the main gate. I walked into a dark, dank space. It looked like a cheap restaurant in some small town.
From out of no where came a call, "Jesus Christ, it's Woody Brandt!"
The voice belonged to Dick Denk, a fellow Phi Delt from Ohio State. I wandered over, eyes still adjusting to the dim light, trying to locate the voice. There sat Dick and Joe Rudy, another Phi, and two more lieutenants. We shook hands and were introduced around. Then Dick and Joe caught me up on the other Phis they had either run into, or heard about, here in Nam. Continental Carl Hirsch and Mike Creager were with the Marines. Creager was a machine gunner. It figured. I caught them up on Eddie Violet and Mike Laneese both of whom I had run into during my stay at Ft. Lewis and Phil Cobb who was trying to get through OCS while I was going through officer basic at Ft. Eustis.
Denk and Rudy had to run, they were just dropping the other two lieutenants off for the flight home. That was a comforting thought. Someone had made it through all 365 days. Suddenly I felt a good deal more optimistic about the coming year. Maybe I'd make it home after all. We said goody by and promised to pass the news on to others.
I finished my dinner and another beer and then stepped outside to look around. The main gate faced due south toward the Bien Hoa - Long Binh road. From the gate the ground went into a long gentle slide down to a river or creek. Standing near the gate, I looked north. A road ran from the gate straight down the slope. Barracks and office buildings sat at even intervals as far as I could see. There were another 6 to 7 streets of equal size to the one I was standing on. I had expected to see tents, but instead I saw what looked like a cheap apartment complex of the kind that exploded around college campuses in the late sixties and early seventies. The army called them 'tropical huts': concrete floor, wood siding to the mid line, then screen up to the overhanging roof. Most were two stories tall. There were shower and toilet facilities at either end of each of the buildings. Trucks and jeeps came and went continuously throughout the daylight hours. I was amazed at the size of everything. This was a substantial village and it had all been built in the past three years.
A specialist who had been part of the orientation team came over and struck up a conversation. "We lost a guy two months ago, damn little 7 year old came up bumming for candy and then tossed a grenade in his jeep." He pointed to some distant land mark near the middle of the camp and claimed that that was the Viet Cong?s high water mark during Tet. "They used the creek bed and storm sewers to get inside the perimeter, set up machine guns and mortars and blasted the shit out the barracks. We lost beaucoup guys right where you're sleeping."
I tried going to sleep, but tired as I was I could not get my brain to let go and relax. I finally managed to drop off when an artillery battery situated in the center of the camp began firing H & I (Harass and Interdiction). I sat up straight in bed, sure that the VC were back.
I wasn't alone. Half the barracks started to head for the bunker outside our barracks when a sergeant with two tours under his belt laughed, "You FNGs don't know incoming from outgoing. Them's our guns firing."
I went back to bed half convinced and spent the rest of the night in fits of sleep, one ear cocked to see if the 'outgoing' became 'incoming.'
Early the next morning our community began to shrink. Groups were called forward by the loudspeaker, told where to assemble and summarily shipped off to the 101st, 25th , and 1st infantry divisions. I was glad I was not an 11 Bravo (foot soldier).
About noon I was told that Lt. Bailey of First Signal was on his way to pick me up. He arrived about an hour later, all his gear packed into two duffle bags and a suitcase. As soon as he briefed me he was headed home. I can't remember much of what he said: names, offices, tasks, ranks all in a scramble of unfamiliar terms. I assumed that all of it would soon make sense to me. I do remember that he gave me some sound advice; "Listen to Chief Joseph. He'll take care of you. Watch out for Major Zaremski and Major Gonsaldo; they'll fuck with you. And stay out of the office as much as you can. Get out every chance you get because Zaremski and Gonsaldo will try and kidnap you."
With that he lugged his gear over to the same barracks I had slept in and headed for outprocessing. Sgt. Matthews helped me stash my gear in the jeep and we headed toward Long Bihn and the First Signal Brigade. My thoughts kept turning back to Lieutenant Cox. Why did I need to 'get out' and 'look busy?' This wasn't state-side duty. Everybody had a job to do here didn't they?
We rolled into the compound at 90th Replacement Detachment (Reh poe deh poe),
the Rep-o-Depot, and were soon sorted into barracks, told to drop our gear on a cot and gather for the first briefing. A large open shelter filled with a dozen neatly spaced picnic tables awaited us. Taking our places, we were handed a stack of forms to fill out. A captain came in to welcome us to Vietnam -- gee, thanks -- and told us that we would be in and out of this place in a matter of days, maybe hours. "I'm in conctact with your receiving units so as soon as we've completed your orientation and your new unit sends transportation you'll be on your way. A team will be here from finance. I want you to take any greenbacks you have in your possession and turn them over to them. They'll give you MPCs, Military Pay Certificates. Once you leave here possession of greenbacks is a court martial offense. Don't screw around with it. Command takes a very dim view of guys with greenbacks."
We filled out our pay forms, income tax forms, insurance forms, mail forms and then exchanged our money. That was followed by a series of "scare" presentations, some in slides, some with films. Snakes, bugs, booby traps, prostitutes, land mines, malaria and sunburn followed in rapid and graphic order. VD and sunburn also turned out to be court martial offenses.
In between the presentations we were given breaks during which the resident ?old timers? would descend upon us FNGs (Fucking New Guys, I now discovered) and fill us in on the "real poop." The stuff the brass doesn't want us to know about:
"There's a VD strain called 'the black siph.' Really bad shit, turns your genitals black before they rot and fell off."
"They've got an island out in the Pacific that no one knows about, that's where they keep all the GI's with black siph. They tell your family you're MIA."
"The VC have whores who keep razor blades in their vagina. One guy I know was lucky, he felt it before he shoved it all the way; shot the bitch with his M-16 then put it on atuo and emptied the magazine on her."
We were still wobbly from the flight and thus an easy target. Our defenses against such nonsense had been worn out. Our suspicion that we would all die here one way or another had been confirmed.
Finally the training day came to an end. The enlisted men were told where to find the mess hall and the officers were given a choice of eating in the mess or the O club.
I choose the O club. It was a short walk from my barracks, just a few buildings down from the main gate. I walked into a dark, dank space. It looked like a cheap restaurant in some small town.
From out of no where came a call, "Jesus Christ, it's Woody Brandt!"
The voice belonged to Dick Denk, a fellow Phi Delt from Ohio State. I wandered over, eyes still adjusting to the dim light, trying to locate the voice. There sat Dick and Joe Rudy, another Phi, and two more lieutenants. We shook hands and were introduced around. Then Dick and Joe caught me up on the other Phis they had either run into, or heard about, here in Nam. Continental Carl Hirsch and Mike Creager were with the Marines. Creager was a machine gunner. It figured. I caught them up on Eddie Violet and Mike Laneese both of whom I had run into during my stay at Ft. Lewis and Phil Cobb who was trying to get through OCS while I was going through officer basic at Ft. Eustis.
Denk and Rudy had to run, they were just dropping the other two lieutenants off for the flight home. That was a comforting thought. Someone had made it through all 365 days. Suddenly I felt a good deal more optimistic about the coming year. Maybe I'd make it home after all. We said goody by and promised to pass the news on to others.
I finished my dinner and another beer and then stepped outside to look around. The main gate faced due south toward the Bien Hoa - Long Binh road. From the gate the ground went into a long gentle slide down to a river or creek. Standing near the gate, I looked north. A road ran from the gate straight down the slope. Barracks and office buildings sat at even intervals as far as I could see. There were another 6 to 7 streets of equal size to the one I was standing on. I had expected to see tents, but instead I saw what looked like a cheap apartment complex of the kind that exploded around college campuses in the late sixties and early seventies. The army called them 'tropical huts': concrete floor, wood siding to the mid line, then screen up to the overhanging roof. Most were two stories tall. There were shower and toilet facilities at either end of each of the buildings. Trucks and jeeps came and went continuously throughout the daylight hours. I was amazed at the size of everything. This was a substantial village and it had all been built in the past three years.
A specialist who had been part of the orientation team came over and struck up a conversation. "We lost a guy two months ago, damn little 7 year old came up bumming for candy and then tossed a grenade in his jeep." He pointed to some distant land mark near the middle of the camp and claimed that that was the Viet Cong?s high water mark during Tet. "They used the creek bed and storm sewers to get inside the perimeter, set up machine guns and mortars and blasted the shit out the barracks. We lost beaucoup guys right where you're sleeping."
I tried going to sleep, but tired as I was I could not get my brain to let go and relax. I finally managed to drop off when an artillery battery situated in the center of the camp began firing H & I (Harass and Interdiction). I sat up straight in bed, sure that the VC were back.
I wasn't alone. Half the barracks started to head for the bunker outside our barracks when a sergeant with two tours under his belt laughed, "You FNGs don't know incoming from outgoing. Them's our guns firing."
I went back to bed half convinced and spent the rest of the night in fits of sleep, one ear cocked to see if the 'outgoing' became 'incoming.'
Early the next morning our community began to shrink. Groups were called forward by the loudspeaker, told where to assemble and summarily shipped off to the 101st, 25th , and 1st infantry divisions. I was glad I was not an 11 Bravo (foot soldier).
About noon I was told that Lt. Bailey of First Signal was on his way to pick me up. He arrived about an hour later, all his gear packed into two duffle bags and a suitcase. As soon as he briefed me he was headed home. I can't remember much of what he said: names, offices, tasks, ranks all in a scramble of unfamiliar terms. I assumed that all of it would soon make sense to me. I do remember that he gave me some sound advice; "Listen to Chief Joseph. He'll take care of you. Watch out for Major Zaremski and Major Gonsaldo; they'll fuck with you. And stay out of the office as much as you can. Get out every chance you get because Zaremski and Gonsaldo will try and kidnap you."
With that he lugged his gear over to the same barracks I had slept in and headed for outprocessing. Sgt. Matthews helped me stash my gear in the jeep and we headed toward Long Bihn and the First Signal Brigade. My thoughts kept turning back to Lieutenant Cox. Why did I need to 'get out' and 'look busy?' This wasn't state-side duty. Everybody had a job to do here didn't they?
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