Gustav Hasford - The Short-Timers

The grunts turn around. One grunt stands up. He walks over to where the poges are sitting.

The poges laugh and punch each other and mock the grunt's angry face. Then they are silent. They stare at the grunt's face. He's smiling now. He's smiling like a man who knows a terrible secret.

The zoomie poges do not ask the grunt to explain why he is smiling. They don't want to know.

Another grunt jumps up, punches the smiling grunt on the arm, says, "Hey, fuck it, Mother. It ain't no big thing. We don't want to waste these assholes."

The smiling Marine takes a step forward, but the smaller man stands in his path.

The poges take advantage of the smiling grunt's delay. They walk backwards up the aisle until they reach the door, then stumble out into sunlight.

I say, "Well, no shit. And they say grunts are killers. You ladies do not look like killers to me."

The smiling grunt is not smiling anymore. He says, "Okay, you son-of-a-bitch..."

"Stand by, Mother," says the small Marine. "I know this shitbird."

Cowboy and I grab each other and wrestle and punch and pound each other on the back. We say, "Hey, you old mother-fucker. How you been? What's happening? Been getting any? Only your sister. Well, better my sister than my mom, although mom's not bad."

"Hey, Joker, I was hoping I'd never see you again, you piece of shit. I was hoping that Gunny Gerheim's ghost would keep you on Parris Island for- ev -er and that he would give you motivation."

I laugh. "Cowboy, you shitbird. You look real mean. If I didn't know that you're a born poge I'd be scared."

Cowboy grunts. "This is Animal Mother. He is mean."

The big Marine is picking his nose. "You better motherfucking believe it." A belt of machine-gun bullets crisscross the Marine's chest so that he looks like a big Mexican bandit.

I say, "This is Rafter Man. He's not a walking camera store. He's a photographer."

"You a photographer?"

I shake my head. "I'm a combat correspondent."

Animal Mother sneers, exposing rotten canine teeth. "You seen much 'combat'?"

"Hey, don't give me any shit, asshole. My payback is a motherfucker. I got twice as many operations as any grunt in Eye Corps. I'm just scarfing up some bennies. My office is up in Phu Bai."

"Yeah?" Cowboy punches me in the chest. "That's our area. One-Five. Delta Company--the baddest of the bad, the leanest of the lean, the meanest of the mean. We hitched down here this morning. We rate some slack 'cause our squad wasted beaucoup Victor Charlies. Man, we are life takers and heartbreakers. Just ask for the Lusthog Squad, first platoon. We shoot them full of holes, bro. We fill them full of lead."

I grin. "Sergeant Gerheim would be proud to hear it."

"Yeah," Cowboy says, nodding his head. "Yeah, I guess so." He looks away. "I hate Viet Nam. They don't even have horses here. Why, there's not one horse in all of Viet Nam."

Cowboy turns away and introduces us to his squad: Alice, a black man as big as Animal Mother; Donlon, the radioman; Lance Corporal Stutten, honcho of the third fire team; Doc Jay, the squad's Navy corpsman; T.H.E. Rock; and the leader of the Lusthog Squad, Crazy Earl.

Crazy Earl is carrying an M-16 Colt automatic rifle slung on his shoulder, but in his hands is a Red Ryder BB gun. He's as skinny as a death-camp survivor, and his face consists of a long, pointed nose with a hollow cheek on each side. His eyes are magnified by thick lenses and one arm of his gray Marine-issue eyeglasses has been wired back on with too much wire. He says, "Saddle up," and the grunts start picking up their gear, their M-16's and M-79 grenade launchers and captured AK-47 assault rifles, their ruck-sacks, flak jackets, and helmets. Animal Mother picks up an M-60 machine gun and sets the butt into his hip so that the black barrel slants up at a forty-five-degree angle. Animal Mother grunts. Crazy Earl turns to Cowboy and says, "We better be moving, bro. Mr. Shortround will punch our hearts out if we're late."

Cowboy is picking up his gear. "That's affirmative, Craze. But you got to talk to Joker, man. We were on the island together. He'll write you up and make you famous."

Crazy Earl looks at me. There is no expression on his face. "There it is. They call me Crazy Earl. Gooks love me until I blow them away. Then they don't love me anymore."

I grin. "There it is."

Crazy Earl grins, gives me a thumbs-up, says, "Moving, Cowboy," and then leads his squad out of the theater.

Cowboy punches me on the shoulder. "That's my fearless leader, bro. I'm the first fire-team leader. I'll be squad leader soon. I'm just waiting for Craze to get wasted. Or maybe he'll just go plain fucking crazy. That's how Craze got to be honcho. Ol' Stoke, he was our honcho before Craze. Ol' Supergrunt. Went stark raving. Pretty soon it'll be my turn."

"Hey, you keep your shit together, Cowboy. You know you're a fool. You know you can't take care of yourself. Remember how easy it was for me to zap you when Sergeant Gerheim made me play sniper? I mean, the Crotch ought to fly your mom over here so that she can go into the bush with you."

Cowboy takes a few steps toward the door, turns, waves goodbye, grins.

I give him the finger.

After Cowboy and his squad are gone, Rafter Man and I watch a "Pink Panther" cartoon. Then we pick up our weapons and head for the PX, which looks like another warehouse. We buy junk food; pogey bait.

As we wait to pay for our pogey bait with military payment certificates, Rafter Man tries to find some words. "Joker, I want...I want to go out. I want to go out into the field. I been in country for almost three months. Three months . All I do is take hand-shake shots at award ceremonies. That's number ten, the worst. I'm bored. A high-school girl could do my job." He gives MPC's to a pretty Vietnamese cashier.

Outside, an apprentice Viet Cong forces me to submit to a boot shine while his older sister exhibits her breasts to Rafter Man.

"Relax, Rafter. You owe it to yourself. You'll be in the field soon enough."

"Come on, Joker, cut me a huss. How can I teach geography if I never see the world? Take me to Phu Bai. Okay?"

"Right," I say. "And then you'll get yourself wasted the first day you're in the field and it'll be my fault. Your mom will find me after I rotate back to the World. Your mom will beat the shit out of me. That's a negative, Rafter. I'm not a sergeant, I'm only a corporal. I'm not responsible for your scrawny little ass."

"Yes you are. I'm only a lance corporal."

Rafter Man and I stop by the USO and exchange a few off-color jokes with the round-eyed Red Cross girls, who give us donuts. We ask the Red Cross girls if they expect us to satisfy our lust with a donut and they explain that a donut hole is all we rate.

In the USO there are barrels and barrels of letters which have been written to us by children back in the World:

Dear Soldiers in Red Alert:

We have learned that men in Vietnam alive or dead are the bravest. We are all trying to help you all

to come home to your house. We'll buy bonds. We help the Red Cross to help soldiers. We'll help

you and your allies to come back. If possible, we'll send you gifts.

From Your Country,

Cheri

Dear Friend in Battle:

I am eight years old. I have one brother. I have one sister. It must be sad over there.

Sincerely,

Jeff

Dear American:

I wish I could see you instead of talking on this Card. We have a dog, and it is so cute. It is black

and has long hair. My name is Lori. I will always remember you in my prayers. Tell everyone I love

them and I love you too, so good-bye.

Your Friend,

Lori

Rafter Man reads the letters out loud. He can still be touched by them.