The World Played Chess (21)

I laughed at the visual. “Was it poisonous?” I asked.

“Hell yeah. ‘Red on yellow kills a fellow. Red on black, venom lack.’ This one was red on yellow.”

“Did the guy die?”

William sucked in nicotine, and when he raised the cigarette, I noticed a tremor in his hand. He tilted back his head and blew out a stream of smoke. “Nah. The corpsman got the antidote in him, and they helicoptered him to a military hospital. They took out a chunk of his ass about that big though.” William held his hands together to indicate a rough circle the size of a baseball. “When he came back, guys called him Rawlings.” I knew Rawlings to be a baseball brand. He chuckled. “After that everyone was looking for logs to crap over.”

I shook my head. “Wait. What? You mean so they wouldn’t get bit?”

“No. So they would get bit. You get bit and you’re flown back to base and get two weeks of R & R. That beats the shit out of humping your ass all day in the bush.” I didn’t know a lot, but I knew R & R meant rest and relaxation. “They had snakes all over that damn place,” William said. “If you weren’t looking for land mines and trip wires, you were looking for snakes. We called one ‘two-step.’ You know why?”

I shook my head.

“Because if you got bit you took two steps before you died.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Another time, this guy got bit in the ass and the corpsman is reading the manual to determine what to do. The manual says, suck the venom out of the wound with your mouth. The guy who got bit gets anxious and says to the corpsman, ‘What does the journal say?’ Medic looks at him and says, ‘It says you’re going to die.’”

William laughed.

I laughed with him, but asked, “Did that really happen?”

“Nah, that’s an old joke that went around after Rawlings got bit.”

I took a slug of beer. “How old were you when you got drafted?”

William tilted the can to his lips. After swallowing, he said, “Eighteen. And technically I didn’t get drafted. I volunteered.”

This surprised me. “Why?”

“Because I knew I was going, sure as shit.”

I gave that a moment of thought. We had a classmate volunteer for the marines, and we all thought that was about the stupidest thing ever. The marines were always in the shit. “Why’d you volunteer for the marines?”

William dropped the cigarette butt into the beer can and tossed it aside, opening a second beer. He offered a second to me.

I declined. “I’m good.”

“I was a wrestler in high school,” William said. “My junior year I won state in my weight class. I had scholarship offers, which I needed to pay tuition. My parents didn’t have the money.”

“Mine don’t, either. I’m heading to community college.”

“Mikey told me. I wasn’t that lucky. My senior year I tore my shoulder and the scholarships went bye-bye. Without wrestling I lost focus, screwed around, and almost didn’t graduate. College was no longer in the equation, so I wasn’t going to get a deferral. I got my draft notice and went down to the draft board to take my physical. The line for the army was out the door and it was about ninety degrees on the blacktop. I wasn’t going to stand in that heat all day. I looked over at the Marine Corps office in the same strip mall and there was no line. I mean no one. So I asked the guy in line behind me to hold my place and I walked over and asked the marine recruiter, ‘How long do I have to enlist for?’

“Recruiter says, ‘If you volunteer, two years active, one reserve.’

“‘How much time in Vietnam?’

“He says, ‘Thirteen months.’

“The army was two years active with twelve months in-country, so I figured it wasn’t any different and I wouldn’t have to spend all day on that asphalt. Plus, I was told if I did well on my AFQT—that’s the Armed Forces Qualification Test—I could choose my MOS.”

“What’s MOS?”

“Military occupational specialty.”

“What did you choose?”

“I got the highest score you can achieve, so I chose MOS 4341, combat correspondent.” My interest was piqued. I intended to study journalism and creative writing in college. “But they ended up denying my first choice—I think because I turned down OCS. They made me a combat photographer. I figured maybe I could put together a portfolio to get my foot in the door at a newspaper somewhere.”

“That’s what I want to do.”

William nodded. “Mikey told me. He told me you were valedictorian. I figured you had to be smart.”

“I haven’t felt like it the past two days. Todd looks at me like I’m a moron.”

“Nah, he don’t feel that way. If he did, he would have fired you.” William lit another cigarette and blew smoke over his head. “Todd doesn’t care how smart you are. He cares how hard you work. You’ve saved him time and money getting the driveway and the roof done this quickly. Reusing the roof beams was also smart. Those boards are expensive.”

I felt good about that. “How come you didn’t pursue photography?” I asked, thinking maybe I would like to see William’s photographs.