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“Okay, newbie, where’s your stuff?” Jonesy asked Jim.
“I’ve just got these two duffle bags.” One duffle bag contained all of Dorsey’s worldly possessions, such as additional uniforms, underwear, and socks along with a shaving kit. There were no civilian clothes in either bag. The second contained an extra pair of jungle boots, mosquito net, field suspenders, web belt, ammo pouches, canteen, canteen cup, canteen case, first aid kit, butt pack, gas mask, flak jacket, steel pot liner, steel pot helmet, steel pot helmet camouflage cover, steel pot helmet camouflage cover elastic band, poncho, and poncho liner.
Picking up one bag each, Dorsey and Jonesy started walking across the company area. The entire company area was under rubber trees, which provided almost total shade over the hooches—the same hooches Jim had seen since arriving in-country. The rubber trees stood in neat rows as they had been planted several decades ago by French planters. The trees stood about fifty feet tall with fairly straight trunks, two to three feet around. Branches started about thirty feet up and fanned out over the hooches with broad dark green leaves. Rubber trees were considered sacred by the US government as the government had to pay the plantation owner for any damaged trees. The enemy knew this and hid in the rubber tree plantations, knowing the US couldn’t fire artillery or air strikes into the plantation areas. The plantations covered hundreds of square miles in the area north of Saigon and around Lai Khe. As they walked, Jonesy conducted a tour, pointing out each feature and location as they went.
“You know where the orderly room is. Over there is Flight Operations. Out in the Chicken Pen is Maintenance and the arms locker, where your weapons are stored. We’ll go by there later. The mess hall is that all-metal building back there,” he said, indicating far to the rear of all the hooches. “Those hooches over there are the officer hooches, followed by the warrant officer hooches. That metal building with the parachute over it is the officers’ club. Our club is that hooch over there with the parachute over it.”
“Those are cargo chutes, aren’t they?” Dorsey asked, noticing the extremely large size. “We don’t drop cargo that big, do we?”
“Nah, we don’t wear parachutes and we don’t drop cargo with parachutes. Lieutenant Cory, a pilot that was here, liberated those two chutes off the airfield at Song Be. Putting them over the clubs added a nice touch to the appearance of each and some additional shade.”
Continuing the tour, Jonesy explained, “The aid station is that hooch over there. You’re going to have to take your medical records over there and get a medical clearance to fly. It’s nothing like the pilots’ physicals. Basically, can you see the chart with both eyes open and standing on one foot?” Jonesy joked. Stopping next to a hooch, Jonesy opened the door. “Welcome to your new home.”
Dorsey’s new home was an open bay with seven beds on each side of a central walkway. Fluorescent lights hung from the exposed ceiling beams down the center aisle. Each bed was covered with a mosquito net and had a footlocker at the foot of the bed. Against the wall, a single wall locker was adjacent to the head of each bed. Some homemade bookcases made out of ammo boxes stood next to a couple of the beds. At the far end of the room stood a homemade card table, a community refrigerator and some well-worn lawn chairs.
Tossing Dorsey’s duffle bag on a bed, Jonesy said, “You can take this bed—he rotated home the other day. Be sure to hang your mosquito net. If you need help, just ask. The company area is pretty free of rats and mice, thanks to the company’s Burmese python that’s occasionally released in the hooches to take care of those critters. When not roaming through a hooch, he’s kept in a pen by the orderly room,” Jonesy explained. The company mascot, a rooster, knew to stay well away from that pen.
“Insects are another matter,” Jonesy went on to explain. “Mosquitoes are kept under control by frequent spraying of the entire Lai Khe area. You will have to take two malaria pills, however, and one will give you the shits, but you don’t want to catch malaria. Cockroaches are another story. They’re big, plentiful and have no consideration for climbing on you when you’re sleeping. Back home we called them palmetto roaches. The mosquito nets are to keep them off you primarily. Leave a pack of cigarettes out and they’ll eat every last one in the pack in a night. Not the whole cigarette but a bite out of each one. During the day they stay out of sight, but with the lights off, they take over the hooch,” Jonesy explained as he reached in the refrigerator for a beer.
“Got a question. Why is Maintenance out in a chicken pen?” asked Dorsey, starting to empty one of his duffle bags.
“They’re in the Chicken Pen—that’s what we call the area where the aircraft are parked. This is the Chicken Coop where we live. Our call sign is Chicken-man. Well, our official call sign is Drumstick, but everyone knows us by Chicken-man. About every six months, Division headquarters sends down new call signs and we’re supposed to change, but we still use the Chicken-man call sign. Next door is the Robin Hoods, and their area is Sherwood Forest. They’re actually the 173rd Aviation Company of the First Aviation Brigade. On the far side of the Chicken Pen where the Cobra gunships are is the Snake Pit. The Cobra gunships belong to our sister company, El Lobos. Get your stuff unpacked and we’ll go get some chow after we go by Supply and get you some flight gear.”
As Dorsey was unpacking, a Vietnamese woman—a teenager, really—came into the hooch. She spotted Jonesy and made a beeline straight towards him.
“Jonesy, you number ten GI. You no pay. You pay now. I no do boots. I no do laundry. You pay, now!” she scolded while thumping him in the chest with her index finger. For a five-footer, she’s a powder keg, Dorsey thought.
“Okay, Opie, okay. I got your money right here,” Jonesy said, reaching for his wallet.
“You owe ten dollar. You pay now.” Jonesy was almost laughing as he pulled out his billfold and handed a ten-dollar script note to Opie, who was now eyeing Dorsey. Military script looked like Monopoly bills and was used in lieu of US dollars. About every six months, the script would be changed without warning, and only US military and US contractors could exchange their script for the new script on that day. The next day, the old script was worthless. Vietnamese workers would go crazy trying to get some GI to exchange their script.
“Who he?” she asked, tossing her thumb over her shoulder.
“He newbie, Opie.”
Right away, she was heading over to Dorsey. “I Opie. I do you laundry; shine boots. You pay ten dollar each month. Okay, GI?” Dorsey didn’t know what to say, so he looked at Jonesy for some guidance on this one.
“Opie is our hooch maid. For ten dollars a month she does your laundry and shines your boots as well as cleans the hooch. She does a good job and keeps the platoon sergeant happy, which makes our life happy,” Jonesy explained.
“Okay, Opie. I’m Jim.” He shook her hand.
“Opie do laundry; shine boots. No funny business. No make boom-boom.” She was very serious. Jim looked to Jonesy again.
“Boom-boom—no sex. No screwing around. The hooch maids are not prostitutes, and God help the guy that thinks they are. If that happens, the CO will kick all the hooch maids out and we’ll be doing our own house cleaning. That will piss everyone off and everyone will be out to kick
your ass. You want a piece of ass, go to the massage parlor on the other side of the base.”
“Okay, Opie, no boom-boom. I understand. Just boots and laundry,” Dorsey said.
Opie smiled. “Okay, you number one GI.” She looked back at Jonesy with an icy scowl. “You number ten GI!” And out the door she went.
“Feisty little thing, ain’t she?” Dorsey commented.
“Yeah, but she’s good. A lot better than some of them. She’ll make sure nothing gets stolen as well, although these people are pretty honest from what I’ve seen. Opie has a kid, boy. She was married, but her husband was killed by the VC. The kids here go to school up to about the sixth grade and then start working on the base, or turn to farming or some other manual job. They’re not lazy, but there isn’t much opportunity for them outside of the big cities. However, if you see them leaving midday and going home, that’s a clear sign we’re going to get hit that night with mortars or rockets,” he added.
“How often does that happen?” Dorsey asked with a concerned look.
“Almost nightly before we hit Cambodia two months ago. Not so much anymore. You done yet? Let’s get over to Supply and get your gear.”
