Stephen Wright - Meditations in Green

At last the great day arrived. The hangar swept and mopped, the tools cleaned and hung in their proper locations, the missing bulbs replaced in the fixtures overhead, the unit, also scrubbed and polished, arranged in perfect formation opposite the double rank of nervous awardees. “Where’s the punch bowl?” whispered Trips. Despite Major Holly’s clear forceful voice his words—bravery, dedication, honor, inspiration—kept phasing in and out of Griffin’s attention like an editorial on a car radio. His mind was hopelessly wandering, he was thinking about something else, sex actually, the specific brown legs of Holly’s hootch maid Anh who had taken lately to romping about the compound dressed in a pair of scarlet silk shorts. The speech ended, Anh disappeared around a corner, and Holly stepped smartly to the first man in the first rank, the First Sergeant right behind bearing the sacramental box of ribboned medallions the major began to pin, one by one, to these deserving chests. The smiles and handshakes were proceeding smoothly until Holly, Bronze Star between thumb and forefinger, leaned toward the starched fatigue shirt of SP/5 Colin Alexander who had begun almost imperceptibly to shake his head. His mouth, trembling, formed a word. “No.” The major’s hand, metal star dangling, paused in midair. Major Holly smiled. “What’s that, specialist?”

“I don’t want it,” said Alexander, “the medal, I mean.”

Puzzled, Holly turned to his First Sergeant who was glaring with full NCO intensity into Alexander’s face. “But this is yours,” the major replied, “you’ve earned this honor.”

Alexander shook his head. “No,” he said, “I did what was required, that’s all. I haven’t earned anything more than my pay. If that,” he added, staring straight ahead, focused on the grease gun on the far wall.

“But whether you accept this from me now or not,” said Major Holly, “the award is part of your official record like it or not.”

The grease gun was hard and bright.

“Yes, sir. I would prefer that it be removed from my record also.”

The major moved closer, blocking the line of sight to the gun. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing here, specialist, but I wonder if you have stopped to consider all those other individuals past and present who have received this decoration with gratitude and dignity and I wonder if you don’t think your behavior today is an insult to them and their accomplishments.”

“No, sir.” There was a fascinating mole on Holly’s face.

Holly cocked his head to one side. “No sir what?”

“No, sir, I didn’t stop to think that.”

“I won’t banter any further with you, specialist. If you don’t want your award we’ll simply send it home to your parents.” Holly dropped the star back into the First Sergeant’s box. “Your mother might have a different feeling about the country’s recognition of her son’s achievements.”

“I’m sure she does,” said Alexander.

“At ease, soldier,” Holly snapped.

Holly stepped to the next chest, a muscle in his cheek conspicuously twitching. Close behind, the First Sergeant now assumed the vacated space in front of Alexander and allowed the cold stones of his eyes to press heavily upon the young specialist’s insubordinate head. He did not blink. No First Sergeant ever blinked. Alexander focused on the distance. That grease gun seemed to have moved to the left since he last studied it.

Major Holly held up an Air Medal before a man who had taken control of a Mohawk flight after the pilot, the Executive Officer of the 1069th, passed out during a routine radar mission. “You’re not about to disappoint your mother, are you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the man, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Glad to hear it,” said Holly.

The rest of the heroes received their awards without complaint and after Major Holly had completed his presentations, he saluted the recipients, about-faced, and stalked from the hangar.

Tubs of iced beer were carted in, steaks tossed on hot grills, and the party began. The first beer cans were still being popped when Lieutenant Tremble backed Alexander against a dismantled fuselage, hissing like a maniac that Alexander was through, finished as an R&A specialist and if he was very lucky he’d spend the rest of the war scraping burned meat loaf out of greasy pans in the mess hall instead of toting a sixteen through the Ashau where he belonged and where he Lieutenant Tremble would pull every lever within reach to see that he went. Several officers applauded. Wurlitzer dropped his pants and showed Tremble a moon he could jump over. Sergeant Ramirez produced a pan of chocolate cake, the American flag in green and purple icing on top. “We all ought to get Purple Hearts for eating this crud,” said Captain Marovicci. Sergeant Mars split a pineapple open with his machete. Simon strummed on a cracked guitar, singing, “Oh Lonesome Me.” A group of pilots gathered in a corner reminiscing about Captain Lemington who crashed five planes during flight training. The black contingent abruptly appeared in the open doorway, surveyed the scene with consummate cool, and marched off with an entire tub of beer. Conrad, the “Motorola man,” showed up for the first time in six weeks and everyone took turns guessing where he had been, Phnom Penh, Vientiane, the streets of Hanoi? Lieutenant Phan demonstrated his quick draw. Trips sneaked about, dropping tiny pills into people’s drinks. Griffin was bored. More beer cans popped. The sun went down. Noll was engaged in an intense explication of the genetic theories of Alfred Rosenberg for a cluster of fascinated NCOs. Balanced on a wing, Wendell filmed Chief Winkly, stripped to the waist, attempting to rotate a pair of tassels pasted to his pendulous breasts. Lieutenant Mueller sat on the floor, gnawing on a steak bone and reading a book. Sergeants Anstin and Sherbert, taking a break in their drinking contest, stepped outside for a moment to see who could piss the furthest. Leaning forward for extra distance, Sherbert tripped and fell into a drainage ditch. Unable to get back up he lay there in the dirt helpless as an overturned turtle to the raucous amusement of a group of enlisted men who had been huddled in the dark passing a pipe stuffed with Thai flowers. Captain Patch, recipient that very afternoon of the final communication from his now ex-wife and her attorney, was propped against a garbage can too drunk to move. “Sergeant Sherbert,” he bellowed, annoyed by this laughter from the lower grades, “I order you to remove yourself from that ditch ASAP.” Sherbert tried again, arms and legs waving about uselessly. “Sorry, sir,” he replied from his supine position, “I’m afraid I’ve been the victim of a slight miscalculation.” “Sherbert!” There was no reply. “Sherbert!” Captain Patch ordered Griffin and Cross to carry their sergeant back to his room so Griffin wasn’t present to hear Captain Raleigh comparing the Vietnamese people unfavorably to the retarded unfortunates his wife, a physical therapist volunteer, worked with daily back in the world or Sergeant Cott’s tales about the early, less economically restricted days of the war when a friend of his left this land of green with about a quarter of a million in green stuffed into his ditty bag or see Captain Fry brandishing a yardstick and demanding that everyone present their penises for immediate measurement or the memorable look on Captain Raleigh’s face going down under Alexander’s quick return when he decided to teach this damn hippie a few lessons about patriotism and respect or the XO stepping between with words of caution to both men sufficient to break the mood and within an hour send the revelers staggering off in twos and threes into the warm night until only Vegetable was left sitting all alone in the cockpit of an incredibly expensive piece of aerial machinery, crooning a tune recognizable only to himself, while one greasy hand tilted a can of stale beer foaming over dials and gauges into wires and gears gurgle gurgle gurgle giving the hot thirsty plane a nice long drink.