The World Played Chess (12)

“How big is the rest of his crew?” I asked.

“You’re looking at his crew,” William said. “We’ll get pulled to other jobs when we get this place buttoned up for the subs.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but not wanting to look naive, I let it go.

After another cigarette, William and Mike got up to go home. I looked at what remained of the pile of concrete. I only had another hour or two and didn’t want Todd to think I’d ignored his directive to get it done.

“It will be there tomorrow,” William said.

“Todd said it needed to get done today.”

William smiled. “We ain’t pouring concrete tomorrow. He canceled the pump truck. The foundations haven’t been inspected yet by the city, and even if the city got here in the morning, which they won’t, it’ll be too hot to pour in the afternoon.”

I looked again at the pile that remained and thought of William’s comment that Todd was testing me. Okay. I’d pass his test. “I can get it done in another hour.”

“Suit yourself.” William showed me how to pull down and padlock the garage door when I finished. He emphasized the importance of this since the garage held our tools and building supplies. Then he and Mike took off.

I finished at six thirty, dead tired, my hands blistered beneath the duct tape. Todd never returned. I had no idea if I had passed his test or not. Or if he even cared.

But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him to fire me.





April 1, 1968

From Da Nang I flew to Chu Lai, a Marine Corps air base located near Tam Ky, the largest city in the Quang Nam Province. I spent a week in the combat center and was immediately told to pretty much forget everything I learned in boot camp and at ITR. At the combat center I learned real guerilla warfare: how to pitch grenades, how to walk through minefields and use a mine sweep, how to walk through the bush in sweltering heat they said would get worse, how to jump from a helicopter hovering off the ground and belly crawl through sniper fire, and how to identify booby traps and areas susceptible to ambush.

When finished, we filled out yet more forms and rosters and got assigned to fire teams. I showed the supply sergeant my combat photographer ID, and he helped me secure a 35 mm Pentax Spotmatic kit, which included 55 mm and 135 mm lenses and three rolls of thirty-six exposure Tri-X film. The supply sergeant also got me my combat gear—rifle, flak jacket, ammunition, helmet, helmet camouflage cover, poncho, poncho liner, rucksack, clean utilities, cigarettes, and candy, which comes in C rations. I told the supply sergeant I wouldn’t need the rifle, just the .45, and that I didn’t smoke and wouldn’t need cigarettes. He stared at me with a queer smirk on his face, then yelled past me to the first sergeant in an adjacent room. “Private William Goodman claims he is a marine but will not need a rifle or cigarettes.”

“Ask Private Goodman if he plans to invite Charlie into his foxhole for a game of Parcheesi and intends to smoke bamboo shafts as he negotiates Charlie’s surrender.”

“Charlie,” I knew, was another derogatory term for our enemy. More psychological bullshit so we would kill without remorse. “Private Goodman, do you plan to invite Charlie into your foxhole for a game of Parcheesi and intend to negotiate his surrender smoking bamboo shafts?”

“No, Sergeant. I’ll take the rifle and the cigarettes.”

“Private Goodman is learning, First Sergeant.”

“Tell Private Goodman, ‘Oorah!’”

The first sergeant further advised that because of Tet casualties, companies were understrength. Due to my shooting marks at ITR and at the combat center, I would be embedded with the Ninth Regiment at forward Firebase Phoenix, located at five thousand feet in the Central Highlands along the Laotian border. I had expected to be stationed at the Da Nang Combat Information Center and given assignments to fly in and out of locations, taking ceremonial photographs of dignitaries and base openings, not combat operations in the bush.

I was shipped by helicopter with four other marines to Firebase Phoenix, a spit of dirt with a landing zone. Atop the hill are radio antennas, mortars, 105 mm howitzers with beehive rounds, and other mass antipersonnel defensive weapons like .50-caliber machine guns. Hooches, canvas tents with wood-stick-and-sandbag walls, have been built below the hill.

I reported to Captain Dennis Martinez, the commanding officer of Charlie Company. Captain Martinez assigned me to a rifle team in the one-three—First Platoon, Third Squad. My squad leader is Corporal Victor Cruz, a Puerto Rican from Spanish Harlem, New York, serving his second tour of duty. Cruz is called Clemente because he resembles the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball great. His head is shaved except for a patch of growth along the crown, and the tips of his ears are pointed like a pit bull’s. He found me a rack in his bunker with six other guys, also from the East Coast, and told me my bunk was vacated by a marine who reached his DEROS and returned home.

“That’s good luck,” he said, leaving the alternative unspoken.

I feel sort of like a high school freshman on the varsity wrestling team. The other marines aren’t unfriendly, but they also see me as lower than whale shit. Cruz told me the squad, platoon, and company have suffered significant casualties. The squad is down to eight marines from the standard thirteen, which explains what I am doing here. However, I have yet to fire a rifle in combat or step outside the wire, which is why they call me Cherry and FNG (fucking new guy).