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 76 (Sat., May 6)

Before leaving post, we dropped by the Commissary to stock up on cigarettes and perishables. Gerry expressed a wish to go to the PX before returning home. I wondered what he needed.

"I wanna get a Zippo," He chuckled. "since it looks like I'll be smoking for awhile."

We approached the proper counter. Eventually, a young woman, possibly still a high-school girl, smiled a little condescendingly, but nevertheless displaying happy braces. "How can I help you, Private?" By addressing his rank, she'd also just told us that she was more than likely an Army brat.

"I'd like a blank Zippo to be engraved." He said a little mischievously and turned slightly red.

Less than interested, she pulled out a display tray. "Pick your lighter." Gerry tapped the one he'd had his eye on. "What engraving do you want."

"Snoopy on his doghouse," He watched her write. "with the caption: Fuck 'em, before they fuck us."

"No can do, Private, uh," She read haltingly from his field jacket. "Helm-uh-sted-uh-ter." and now sneered."

"Why?" Gerry wanted to know.

"'Cause, it's against my religion to even jot down shit like that." She smiled victoriously.

"You know, uh," He read her name tag. "Rosemarie, because of people like you, I'm looking forward to finally getting to Vietnam."

***

Driving down Post Road to turn left onto Pendleton Pike, I glanced at Gerry. "Why didn't you buy that blank Zippo and get it engraved later?"

"Not from that bitch." was his quiet, almost sulky response. And our conversation remained subdued, just listening to WCFL, 'The Voice of Labor', a rock station out of Chicago, just to make sure that we weren't exposed to an overdose of local religious, country and western from 'this neck of the woods', to use the local vernacular. Gerry and I enjoyed and sang along with Draft Dodger Rag by Phil Ochs, then his regained better spirits sank and he switched off the radio in the middle of the Golden Oldie, Back Home Again in Indiana.

"Indiana ist so ein gottverdammtes Loch!"

"Wow, mein Schatz." I laughed, squeezed his thigh and had to switch on the wipers to accommodate the increased drizzle. "Now, I know how to say: 'Indiana is such a god-damned something.' in German. What's a Loch?"

"Hole." Gerry laughed and placed my right hand onto the bulge his cock made. And that's where I left it, until I had to downshift to turn into Earl's filling station.

I got out, since I'd stopped under the roof, which would normally have been the wrong side to fill the tank, but again I swore allegiance to our Mustang, since the tank cap was in the middle of the rear. When Earl opened the door to his office, I greeted him and heard the now familiar jingle: 'WCLF, Chicago.' I'd overlooked the telltale 'I'm bold' button on his bibbed coveralls, telling everyone that Earl was a WCLF fan.

"Good radio reception." I was only stating a fact, since Chicago was somewhere around two hundred miles away. Then the Chickenman series started: 'He's everywhere. He's everywhere.'

"Yeah, sometimes a little too good." He undid the tank cover and inserted the nozzle. "Don't let me forget to give you the US Embassy's Saigon guide. It's a little out of date, and June wants it back, but it could be helpful. And she also gave me Yvette's card so you can get in touch. It's stapled to the front cover of the guide."

***

After inspecting the Formica top for anything wet, Gerry placed the fifty page booklet on the table and laughed. "This is promising to be good."

"How so?" I came up behind him and looked over his shoulder, resting my chin on the pronounced muscles running up his neck.

"It's information, prepared by the American Women's Association of Saigon and revised in 1958." He brought his right arm up and locked his hand behind my head. "Didn't Earl tell us it was just a little out of date?" He turned and kissed me. "It was revised when I was nine."

Leaning over the table, to get a closer look at the calling card, it read:

M^me Yvette Duras
11-23 Lê Loi (Place Francis-Garnier), Saïgon
Téléphone: 20.605

I wondered what information she was willing to relate, upon which I could base a story, a novel, even. My first urge to become a writer had been triggered by Maxine, the Howard Johnson's waitress from Times Square, but the thought of Madame Duras of Saïgon settled it. I vaguely wondered what my first work would be.

First of all, I decided that I needed one of those new Wollensack compact-cassette recorders that I'd seen at the PX, the other day, since I hated taking notes. First, however, I'd have to find out how much unaccompanied baggage I would be allowed or if I could take it in my hand luggage.

Gerry, on the other hand, had his hand down, inside my boxers, which were inside my starched uniform pants, working his Fuck finger between my hard cheeks. His torrid kisses on my neck brought me in line with his wants.

***

After our first session of emergency sex, as Gerry put it, we were out like a light. During our after-sex nap, I must have dreamt something distressing, since I drifted into a somewhat sad consciousness, clinging to my guy. I let the back of his full, blond head of hair, the dusting of curly chest hair, the fuzz on his ass and legs, his scent, which always reminded me of warm milk and honey, etch themselves indelibly into my memory.

I knew that I loved him and that he loved me. But I was feeling something beyond love. It wasn't just that I felt a part of him. It was as if I couldn't separate myself from him. It was as if I wouldn't be at all surprised, if at some point, I would wake up and look like him. I would have round, blue eyes, totally pale skin, and blond hair. The thought made my skin crawl with excitement, my balls retract in anticipation, and at the same time, my stomach churned with revulsion.

My increased breathing was probably what woke him. His increased sweating from the nap is probably what aroused my lust to fever pitch. His scent put my teeth on edge. I had to leave my mark on him, even if it were only an insignificant hickey on his ass. It wasn't for others to see, it was only that he had to be mine, and I had to know it.

The rain and wind were picking up; the drops pelted the window in our bedroom. And as I lowered the blanket to expose his downy ass, there was a definite chill to the air. Pronounced gooseflesh rose on his fuzzy, ivory-colored skin. The thought of cannibalism crossed my mind, causing a vague sense of guilt to rise, although I knew that I could never harm my Gerry.

I gently turned my still-drowsy partner onto his front, as I tongued my way down the raised goose bumps, increasing their stiffness as I went. I reached the spot of my attack, the pasty-pale, blue-white skin, on the inside of his left cheek, next to his hole.

He didn't as much as flinch, since it didn't take really any suction at all to mark his delicate skin. And I'd imagine that my tonguing his hole, directly before and after the hickey, had put him into sensory overload, anyway.

My tongue worked its way back up his spine. By the time I reached his shoulders, he'd taken my cock and was gliding my skin back and forth over the glans. My pre-ejaculate was already bubbling and was enough to push into him without strain. His warmth was telling me that this White Tiger, ruler of the West, was with me; his purring was telling me about the abundance of his protective love.

***

After having mounted my White Tiger and he me, we drifted off again, enjoying the closeness. It was just after four in the afternoon when his stomach growled, making me laugh at the White-Tiger analogy. For an early supper, we settled on pizza and beer. It was his turn to cook, which entailed putting a half-thawed, erstwhile frozen, pizza into the oven and using the church key to open two bottles of German beer.

I wondered what beer would taste like in Vietnam, as I picked up the booklet that June had lent us, and took another swig of Patzenhofer from the Class VI. I ran through the table of contents and found no reference to beer. However, I did find quite a few indirect references to The Big-White Guy's superiority.

At the top of page 16, you found out how the Big-White Mamma gets her minions in line: However, patience, perseverance, understanding and humor will go a long way in surmounting the difficulties, and the reward can be eager-to-please, good, loyal servants.

Then, skipping over the paragraph about how to acquire and dispose of servants through the Embassy's bulletin, I stumbled onto a paragraph that could have been written by the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan or Congressman Albert Johnson. And, of course, I had to read it three times to believe my eyes: One may employ either Chinese or Vietnamese servants, but only in rare instances both in the same household, as there are likely to be clashes between the two groups. There are many Chinese servants who speak some English, and have worked for Americans, French or British for several years. Their caste system is rigid, and they do not readily adapt to new household procedures. Vietnamese, though often less finished servants, are loyal and honest. Once they understand what is desired, they usually try to please.

"Did you know that the American Embassy discourages putting Hoa and Vietnamese servants together in the same household?" I asked my Gerry, who was watching the pizza in the oven.

"Why? Don't they play nicely together?" He chuckled and took a swig of his beer.

"Apparently, there would be ethnic clashes." I read further, as I answered absentmindedly.

"You're not thinking of having servants, are you?" The sound of his voice was of disbelief, but he did display a mischievous grin, and he pulled at his dick.

"Only if we can find some field-grade American officer, who needs the extra cash to feed his opium habit and is willing to run around buck-assed naked and call us 'Sir'." And as soon as I'd said that, the memory of Sean's having talked about the old French Soldiers, sitting in Saigon's bars and at the colonial leftover, Cercle Sportif, keeping their dead comrades company as they drank themselves to death or slowly shut down on opium. I lifted my bottle. "To old soldiers."