Stephen Wright - Meditations in Green

On the second morning of Major Holly’s command, a unit formation was held which all but the minimum essential personnel and their section leaders were required to attend. Uniforms were checked for cleanliness, boots for polish, chins for stubble, hair for unauthorized length. The First Sergeant made notations on a clipboard. Holly spoke of the importance of pride, in self, in mission, in unit. Pride anchored the spirit. Look good, feel good, do good. A soldier without confidence was a defeated soldier. The mission may not be one of actual physical combat, but the lack of immediate perceptible action did not, could not, diminish its importance, its urgency. We of the intelligence branch occupy the apex of the military hierarchy, the eye at the top of the pyramid. Remember the dollar bill. Be prepared. E Pluribus Unum. Our mission. Highest priority. I want. I expect. Don’t let me down. I won’t you.

Setting. In one corner a gold-fringed Stars and Stripes, in another the colors of the Republic of South Vietnam. Opposite the desk four gray chairs, cushioned; a pair of matching gray filing cabinets; a solid black combination safe squatting on the floor like an overweight toad. On the left a small field table, a set of book shelves packed with all those cream-colored manuals, FMs, TMs, ASDMs, that every orderly room was required to have and no one but the First Sergeant ever consulted. Inserted between FM 22-5 Drill and Ceremonies and FM 19-60 Confinement of Military Prisoners a wrinkled copy of the February 1968 Playboy, centerfold missing. And in the center of the gray-tiled floor an arrangement of rust-colored tiles carved in the elaborate insignia of the intelligence branch. Holly was never sure of the symbolism. The dagger, obviously, represented danger, stealth. The sun was the all-seeing eye shedding light to the four points of the compass. And the rose? The rose was what—seduction, beauty, blood? In official reproductions the center of the flower, a circle studded with clove-like dots probably meant to indicate stamen and pollen, looked to the major exactly like a miniature bug, not the insect friend of pollination, but the electronic microphone, friend of the spook. On the wall behind the major’s head a 1:250,000 scale map of Southeast Asia, on the wall opposite a framed photograph of the President of the United States. Overhead the fluorescent light twitched and buzzed, altering the character of the room. New shadows formed. On the wall above and to the right of the safe a dark half moon waxed and waned in nervous rhythm with the rapid light.

In the first week of his command, Major Holly, accompanied by the clipboard-armed First Sergeant, conducted a brisk tour of the unit compound. Dodge City before the Earp brothers. Holly wanted an immediate cleanup, wash and wipe from the motor pool to the flight ramp. He wanted the enlisted men’s quarters inspected weekly, they were living like spoiled children. He wanted the hootches painted, hell he wanted everything painted, everything white, clean and white. He wanted neatness, he wanted order. Let’s see if we can’t at least pretend we’re professionals.

War: incredible boredom punctuated by exclamation marks of orgiastic horror. The superior leader understood that his ability to command in periods of stress was a function of his talent in the creative management of boredom. For the rear area commander boredom was the lone, true enemy. Noncombatants had to be reminded constantly of the peril off in the unseen as well as their own positions within an organization of immense and frightful power. Therefore, the superior leader insisted upon the proper bearing, proper decorum, proper preparedness. Traditional remedies. There could not be too little ornament.

In the first month of his command Major Holly announced that daily physical training would be reinstituted immediately and that the partitions dividing the enlisted mens’ quarters into private rooms would be torn down, the hootches converted into open stateside barracks. He proposed to allow the fresh air in, gentlemen, see what things look like in the light. We need exercise for our bodies, space for our minds. The mission requires clarity. Let’s keep our vision unobstructed, yours, mine, working as a team, emphasis not harassment, you, me, together, forward.

Major Holly opened his briefcase. There was one personal ornamental luxury he did allow himself: a grainy brown photograph of the old ironclad Virginia. The picture commemorated for him the only other voluntary intersection of the Holly family with the military. Cousins and uncles and grandfathers and his own father had been inducted into service of the nation’s various wars and police actions but only one great-great-grandfather had, before Holly himself, actually enlisted without duress or regret. The old boy may not have made the wisest decision in choosing the navy but it was a life he chose and one he died for when a hot cannonball caroming off the iron hull he had been carelessly leaning against knocked him to the deck a puddle of jelly. That was the legend. Holly liked to have the picture before him. The wharf. The riveted ship. The faded flag. The bearded sailors. The brass buttons of their uniforms. All eaten by the shiny brown sea. It confirmed his obligations. The door opened and the First Sergeant entered, bearing the day’s paperwork. Holly glanced through the sheaf of intelligence summaries. The usual brew of facts, falsehoods, and exaggerations a field commander was forced to stir into pertinent sense. There was a coded request from The General advising all intelligence units to devote top priority to pinpointing the exact location of that damned 5th NVA Regiment. There was a message warning all units in the immediate area that the possibility of enemy air/ground attack for the period 13–14 November was 75–80 percent rising to 90 percent the early morning of the fourteenth. Holly checked his watch, then tore the dispatch into pieces he tossed into a burn bag. Today was 19 November. He decided that tonight he would order a surprise shakedown of the 1069th. Drugs, weapons, miscellaneous contraband, let’s shake it all out, get on with the job at hand.

In the second month of his command Major Holly, humming and glowing, returned from the nightly O club festivities, unlocked his door, and found square in the center of his clean floor… a rolled-up sock?… a bottle of mouthwash?… a human turd? He flipped on the overhead. An authentic fragmentation grenade tightly packed with powder, pellets, and anonymous threat.

Setting. The walls were bright with fresh paint, the wastepaper baskets reeked of disinfectant. Major Holly sat at his desk, studying the latest order of battle analyses. Looking up, he thought he saw an unpleasantly large bug scurry along the baseboard and disappear behind the safe. He got up to check. The safe would not budge. From where he now stood the buzzing light reflected differently and he could see quite clearly mop streaks on the floor and about halfway between his desk and the door a dirty sticky splotch the shape of one of those vague South American countries. He shouted through the open doorway for the First Sergeant. He wanted a cleanup detail in here right after dinner to scrub, wax, polish, and buff. This floor was a scandal.

Bounded by a nutshell then, secure in the vise of the earth, a unity whole, free, and organic, a voyager beyond time. And outside, a hull thickness away? Cold, wet loneliness, the agony of growth, total struggle in total night. And up above, a gap of infinite inches? The blindness of light, storm, drought, frost, and the monstrous food pyramid.

Happiness is a pristine seed coat.

Huey had no telephone and she wouldn’t tell me where she lived—she came and went as she pleased. When I wanted to talk I called her at work down at the Social Services office.