This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 78 (Sun., July 9)

Things really started buzzing, when we got a phone call on Sunday evening from the Department of the Army. As we'd learned during basic, it could have been a fake call, so I asked the general's secretary for their number, checked with information, and I called back. The general's secretary had sounded vaguely familiar, but when I called back and identified myself, I knew who it was. "Mon dieu, Loughery! You always did work by the book." came the voice across the line in very American French and New-England English. It was our CO from the reception company at Dix. "This is Herb de Witt."

"Wow, Captain, what--"

"It's Major, now." He chuckled a little awkwardly. "Got a promotion, and a new assignment to the MACV HQ in Saigon, along with my new boss."

"Congratulations, Sir."

"Um, we can dispense with the formalities, Ben," He laughed. "unless the general's listening." He chuckled a little forced. "You're the one with the PhD." Now, a little alarm bell went off in the back of my head. No officer went all 'buddy-buddy' unless there was an ulterior motive.

"Okay, Herb, what can I do for you?" I was listening for nuances in his voice.

"Well," He started off with a pause. "I hope you and Gerry can do this. I know that it's short notice." He paused, again. "We have two high-ranking officers going on a fact-finding mission in Vietnam for NATO and are supposed to be meeting with Secretary McNamara's staff at Tan Son Nhut. The one is from Belgium and the other is from West-Germany. Seems like the gentlemen over-estimated their ability to communicate in English. So, we need two interpreters ASAP, and since you're on orders for Nam, anyway, I thought..."

Gerry, who was listening over the extension in the kitchen, gave me the thumbs up, grinning broadly. So, I answered for both of us: "I think it would be an honor."

"Can I speak with Gerhard?" Major de Witt's voice sounded like he was crossing his fingers.

Gerry spoke up on the extension. "Uh, I'm on the phone in the kitchen. And I'd love to help you out, as long as you call me Gerry."

"It's a deal, then." He cleared his voice. "Uh, as I said, this is really short notice..." He let his voice trail off. "We need you here at midnight tonight for out-processing, so we can get wheels up by 0100 hours." Then he sounded conspiratorial. "And the general will arrange for your leave to be converted to in-country R&R, after we get these NATO observers off our backs."

Now, that sounded good. Gerry came in from the kitchen and hugged me. "We can do this."

Of course, Gordon was standing by, shifting from one foot to the other, almost wetting himself with excitement. "So, give me the details, already."

***

Seconds after the phone call, Gordon went to the top buffet drawer and got out three unopened packs of playing cards. "You can't get them in Vietnam, since all sorts of gambling are illegal."

"Thanks, but Gerry and I have other things to do." We laughed.

"Then sell them on the black market. Or use them as gifts." Gordon tucked the three decks into my duffel.

"I'm so glad," Ju-Long was helping us get our shit together, to use the military vernacular. "that you don't have to go through that fucking prison at Overseas Replacement Center in Oakland, particularly you, Gerry."

Gerry gave him a questioning look. "Why would it be harder for me than Ben?"

"Because when they put you on the flight manifest, they lock you up in a warehouse with almost no ventilation, in a caged-in area, were you can't get out." He hugged Gerry. "It's just like being in a concentration camp. And just think of those poor guys, who never come back. The last thing they remember of home is having been locked up by their own government."

Gerry didn't seem very bothered about the prospect other than being curious. "Why would they do that?"

"To keep you from deserting, at the last minute." Ju-Long explained.

"Fucking Hell of a lotta good that'd do. Where would you go?" I commented between gritted teeth, locking my duffel bag.

"And," Gordon came in from the laundry room with the underwear and socks, he'd taken out of the dryer. "they lock you up, to keep you from talking to the press about where you're going to be stationed and your opinions about being sent to Vietnam." We put the rest of our belongings into Gerry's duffel and locked it.

***

After having signed the Mustang over to Gordon, he drove us to LaGuardia in Queens. We even managed to get the 2100 hours shuttle on Eastern to National Airport in D.C., well actually in Virginia but so what? It's all about pageantry. So, just after 2200 hours we had claimed our duffel bags and together with our hand luggage we were off in a yellow cab through the Potomac fog toward the Pentagon. Or so I'd told the cabby.

Luckily for us, the cab had a compass, the kind with a ball floating in liquid, mounted on its windshield. And also luckily for us, I'd paid attention on our school excursion to the nation's capital in the fifth grade and knew that the Pentagon was north of the airport, since it had been the first stop on our excursion after we'd gotten off the plane. So, since we were traveling south along the Potomac, according to the cab's own compass, we must have been driving in the wrong direction.

"Why are you driving south?" I asked as casually as I could; Gerry was grinning apprehensively, since he knew the tone.

"Taking you to the Pentagon, just like you said." The cabby looked cautiously into the rearview mirror.

"Do you know what soldiers do, Sir?" I thought I'd ask, since he may not have appreciated what the significance of two guys in summer khakis was.

"Uh, serve our country?" His voice was adjusting to meek, reminiscent of a school boy.

"Well, first and foremost, we are paid killers." I let that sink in. "And we have, in fact, killed people." Again, a pregnant pause. "Just as a warning, to let you know that the Pentagon is north of the airport." Another pause. "So, it might well behoove you to turn the meter off and retrace our path, and take us to the Pentagon, before either or both of us gets upset."

***

We arrived at the Heliport Entrance at 2235 hours and reported to the guard that we had an appointment with Major de Witt. The guard put the call through and handed me the receiver. Herb was elated that we were early. I felt that I could actually hear the brownie point stacking up with the general. Nonetheless, I was beginning to feel the lack of sleep, and Gerry's stomach growled.

Right at 2300 hours Herb, Gerry and I boarded the chopper for transport to and briefing at Andrews Air Force Base. There was one seat, which was by itself and a little bigger than the others, which was obviously reserved for someone higher in rank than a Specialist 4. The other seats looked like two, three-seater, olive-green, scantly upholstered, aluminum camping sofas, you could have come across at any thrift shop.

When Gerry's stomach growled, Herb motioned for us to sit on the three-seater opposite him on the other camping couch. "Are you guys hungry?"

"We haven't had anything substantial to eat since breakfast, this morning in Harrisburg." Gerry informed the major. Again, his digestive tract confirmed the statement.

A man showed up in an olive-drab flight suit, and pointed to our headsets, hanging from hooks next to the seat. "Gentlemen, please put on your earmuffs, so we can start the engine, and you can talk through the intercom."

He placed the two aluminum steps into the chopper under the large vacant seat and slid the side door shut. After getting into the front with the other guy and putting on his helmet, he came across the intercom: "I'm your AC, Captain Ross, and since we'll be crossing from Virginia into Maryland and flying over water, I have to tell you that the cushions, you're sitting on are also floatation devices." He chuckled to himself. "That's in case we have to ditch this baby in somebody's swimming pool, or the Potomac." He started the engine. "Our pilot, this evening is Mr. Meyers, as in Warrant not civilian." Again, he chuckled. "Make sure you're buckled up." The engine revved and whined, and just like my old buddy, Sean McGrady, had explained back at the reception center, we were off like a dirty shirt.

My first chopper ride had lasted less than ten minutes, and I'd liked it. But Captain Ross had set the helicopter down next to the C-137, which made it seemed like a roller skate next to my Mustang, or better, Gordon's Mustang. As I passed Captain Ross, I saluted, even though I wasn't sure if I should since our Major Herb was with us. "Thanks for the lift, Sir."

He returned the salute and smiled almost shyly. "Watch your back in the Nam, Kid."

***

Herb, Gerry, and I climbed the passenger boarding stairs, which had been driven up to the Air-Force plane. It looked like a 707, even though they kept calling it a C-137. When we got to the door, and I was almost hypnotized having had Gerry's butt in my face, when we were greeted by a master sergeant, if I'd counted his six stripes correctly.

Wavy Air-Force stripes were just piled on top of each other, rather than the Army's three chevrons on top and three rockers on the bottom. But as rumor had it, you had to be able to read and write to get into the Air Force. And look good. And smell nice. And have a complexion that didn't clash with blue. And be able to do really clever things, like fly shit. All Gerry and I had to do was type and shoot.

***

Luckily, Major Herb had our paperwork. He gave our master sergeant steward our plane tickets, which were labeled as MAC flight vouchers. I had to assume that the Air Force had their own set of abbreviations, since I hadn't come across MAC before. The ticket voucher was at the top of the page and our meal tickets were at the bottom. It was disturbing that only three meals, plus one 'other', would be provided according to the form.

Motioning us to have a seat at the conference table at the front, where normally the first-class section would be, "Don't worry about it." the master sergeant told us, while handing out pre-packaged, pre-takeoff sandwiches and soft drinks. And when Gerry's stomach growled, he gave us all an additional packaged sandwich and had to chuckle at the acoustics. "We have enough food on board to feed a platoon."

"How did we luck out and get the carbon copy of Air Force One?" Major de Witt wanted to know, while opening his first sandwich pack.

Our master sergeant steward buffed his finger nails on his vest as a gesture of mock pride. "Our turn-around flight will be taking Secretary of Defense McNamara back to Washington, so I guess you guys sorta just got lucky."