Storymania - War by Albert Davis

War
Albert Davis

War: Chapter and Verse, Gen. 1:1-2

" In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."

War is a perpetual darkness that comes from misunderstanding, mistrust, bias and greed. Misunderstanding is the blindfold that we apply to our young at birth; it is woven from the fabrics of patriotism and nationalism and double stitched with fear. The blindfold is held together by catch all the phrases: in defense of freedom; to protect our way of life; and for the common good. The blindfold is tied firmly in place at the very dawn of our existence, especially for male children, and is never willingly removed. It is without form, a void that holds darkness over the face of the earth, and the spirit of God has nothing to do with it. The blindfold leads young warriors into harms way, a place no one in their right mind willingly goes. It embroils youthful strangers in life and death struggles over indifferences, prejudices, and lunacies. It is a testament to the effectiveness of this blindfold that there have always been wars and at the present it would appear there always will be. Mankind has, to date, shown a remarkable aptitude for conflict and an abhorrence to harmony, when we cannot find an enemy we will create one.

We do not require facts of any sort in order to create an enemy. The fact of the matter is that concrete truths often get in the way of practical enemy development, therefore, they must be put aside and restricted. The meat of enemy development is mistrust and the gravy is bias. When there is a difference between what we believe and what we perceive, and since we are largely resistant to questioning our beliefs, a foundation for mistrust is laid. If we then take any physical, cultural, or perceptual difference, whether it be eye color, skin color, accent, religious conviction, etc., and label it evil or sinful, because it does not conform to what we feel is correct, we can justify the mistrust and fear. We then apply this aggregate to an individual or group, groups work best in the case of war justification, and enemy development is complete. Meat and gravy, um...um...good. Then if this group should happen to have something that we desire, we can liberally season the meat and gravy with a heavy dose of greed.��

From what I have just related to you, you might think me a pacifist of some kind. While I am at the time violently opposed to war, at one time the blindfold was tied before my eyes and riveted firmly in place. I was a warrior. I breathed and lived for conflict. I held a righteous contempt for those who would defame or oppose the just and righteous, note righteous again, uses of military force. Hell, I enlisted in the service in the first place for the express purpose of fighting Communist Heathens around the world, to make this a safer place for us to dwell. No...Wait a minute, that was afterwards. Actually the reason I first enlisted in the service was a matter of options. Yea, that's right, I remember now. It was Judge Ruben E. Hall of the Chicago Juvenile System, who gave me the options of a certain number of years in an institution of the states choosing or a period of time spent in the defense of our Country. I choose the defense of the country. That was, after all, the right and moral thing to do.

Anyway, just why I enlisted is not the point. The point is that just like millions of young men before me, the war machine that is so pervasive in our society blinded me.

In December 1968, actually it was a bit earlier than that and that's a tale for later, I joined the United States Army. Go Green, whoof, whoof, whoof. I attended Basic Training at Fort Polk, Louisiana. (College elective-Ball Buster 101) There I spent eight weeks of intense pain and misery, consisting of long hours of physical punishment, constant mental anguish, and large sweaty men with less than pleasant mouth odor standing very close and shouting. Much of what was being screamed into my face was lost in the volume and spittle in which it was delivered; however, I quickly learned that the proper response was a loud and resounding-YES, DRILL SARGENT! Those that were a bit slow on the up-take were often assisted in their instruction by the gentle and loving application of some form of physical motivation. I am sure that somebody must have loved it, because of how frequently it was deemed appropriate. But, what's a kick in the butt among friends? I did manage to survive this period of time and was extremely elated when this portion of my military education was over. I was truly ready to break camp and get the flock out of there. That's probably why life took this small opportunity to put the screws to me.

After the graduation ceremony when we were all back in the barracks to receive our assignments, most of which were for Advance Infantry Training a mere six miles away at a place lovingly called Tigerland, I was content in the knowledge that this forlorn group would not include me. I was to be sent to a school somewhere in New Jersey. As I watched joyfully the crushed looks on the faces of those poor souls as their names were read into the roles, I felt wonderfully wicked and very smug. Then Drill Sergeant Weston, a very large and unpleasant man of African-American descent, whom I had grown to truly dislike, called my name. He looked deep into my eyes and smiled; my testicles shriveled and my asshole sucked pants material deep inside. I had learned that anytime Drill Sergeant Weston deemed it necessary to smile at any of us, it bode ill for us. Then the most dreaded thing possible happened, he stepped forward and stood directly in front of me. The wide brim of his drill hat pressed a thin crease across my brow. The subtle hint of garlic wafted across my face and Weston gurgled in delight, "Davis...Tigerland."

My vision blurred. My knees went weak. My heart faltered. It was only my astringent and extensive training that prevented me from humiliating myself and collapsing on the spot. As I recall, "Oh Shit", is the exact expression I used, or was it just, "Nooooooooooooooooooo." My memory of the incident is not at all that clear in the details. I do recall that it was much latter that the stress of this situation caused me to shed an ample amount of tears. That's right, I cried like a little bitch. Ordinarily such an admission would cause me a great deal of shame, admitting to such a thing is no easy task for a warrior. Tigerland would soon prove that my reaction to the circumstance was by no means out of line. There would be many tears shed in the weeks to come, by many people. The fact that I survived the subsequent eight weeks, and many did not, is ample proof of the measure of my internal resilience.

Tigerland, was an experience in physical and mental depravation that extended the idea of purgatory into a place of physical space and dimension in the world of reality. The limits of the human body and mind were explored to the frayed edges of their extremities. In other words, Tigerland... "SUCKED." Tigerland did, however, succeed in its objectives. Tigerland first refined the skills I had obtained during basic training, and polished them to a high finish. It then turned me into an aggressive well-oiled mechanism of destruction. Tigerland riveted the blindfold firmly in place across my eyes. It would require a number of severe and life-altering experiences before the blindfold could be removed.

When I finished my training at Tigerland, I was, in the military vernacular, eating iron and shitting nails.� My sole purpose in life was to seek out the enemies of Democracy and, forgive my language, fuck them up beyond recognition. I stood in the ranks at graduation waiting to receive my ribbon and orders. Orders I was sure would send me to Vietnam and my destiny, of course, what I got were orders sending me to school in New Jersey. I was devastated. They took away my rifle, my bayonet, my pistol belt, and hand grenades; they put me on a bus and wished me farewell. I was pissed. I spent the next four months in a perpetual anger learning to be a combat photographer, which was a bit subordinate to my desire of being an Infantry weapon of mass destruction.

I remember the day they sent me to the school Head Shrinker. It was after I had been in school for over three months and was due to graduate in a couple of weeks; I was still angry. The shrink and I talked calmly about nothing for almost thirty minutes before he asked the most crucial question. "What do you want to do Private Davis?"

The anger boiled up inside my chest, my eyes became red with aggravation, my nostrils flared in rage, my breath came hard and rasping, I gripped the arms of the chair and rose partially from my seat, I glared directly into the eyes of that lieutenant and growled, "Sir...I wanna, KILL! I WANNA KILL, KILL, KILLLLLLLLLLL." I rose from my seat completely and began to pursue that doctor across his desk as I told him more of my desires. "I wanna rape, pillage, and plunder. I wanna stab women and shoot livestock, I wanna beat-up Commies and burn Draft Dodgers," by this time I was standing on the shrinks desk dancing around in circles and screaming-KILL-KILL-KILL-KILL-KILL-etc.

I never noticed when that young Lieutenant joined me on the desk in my mad dance, but eventually the door was flung open and several members of the Military Police came and dragged me and that young fella out of there. I never did go see the shrink again. In fact after the sedation wore off I was treated as if the incident never even happened. The rest of the class must have learned of the occurrence because somehow they never looked at me quite the same after that neither did the instructors. Many years latter I heard of a similar incident in the words of a song by a Mr. Guthrie, Arlo Guthrie I think it was, and I often wonder if he was in that building somewhere that day, Oh Well.

A couple of weeks latter at graduation twenty-three of the twenty-four members of my class received orders for Vietnam, and I received orders for...Korea. Once again I was devastated and pissed. This shit just was not fair. At this rate my chances of shooting an enemy of the State were dimming rapidly. I was starting to believe my military career would be a bust, but there were a few other options I was considering. The darkness and blindfold still ruled. This time I was flown to the debarkation port of SEATAC, which is military jargon for the port of Seattle-Tacoma, from there we were flown to Kimpo Airbase in the land of Korea. A small side note before I continue, the approach to the airfield at Kimpo proved to be an experience in itself, which I will expound upon, further at a later time.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand, that being the lack of consideration the U.S. Military was showing for my quest of John Waynedom. Shortly after landing at Kimpo, all the members of the flight I was on went through a brief period of orientation and inoculation. In other words we were; grabbed and stabbed; rolled and polled; racked and jacked; then sent merrily on our way. The final shot of the day was an injection that require the use of a needle slightly shorter in length than a nine iron. The sole purpose of which was to ensure that there would be no complaints about the two-hour drive standing in the cattle cars that came next. I learned that my final destination was a place called Yong-song compound located in the heart of Seoul, the capital of South Korea. Upon my arrival I was again subjected to the rigors of another indoctrination period and then sent to my place of duty, the military photo lab. I would be taking pictures, how droll. War and glory slipped further away.

Even though I felt the Army was wasting a wonderfully violent source of combat potential, myself, as I said before I had options under consideration. The first of those options I put into action exactly one week later. That was when I first went to the Company Orderly Room and submitted my very first, 4187. A, 4187, is a military document used to request a number of actions, requesting an inter-theater transfer is one of them. I requested to be sent immediately, without hesitation, in the most expedient manner possible to a combat assignment in the Republic of Vietnam. One week later my request came back denied, which, if you are in anyway familiar with the Military and it's procedures, is like being told no on the spot. This began a routine that was to become a source of unit pride. Word of the regimen of my requests for transfer spread throughout the battalion and everyone began to refer to Company A as Toon-town, and I became the Mayor.

And so every week, between whoring, drinking, smoking, joking, and occasionally working, I submitted one request for transfer. I performed this ritual without fail each and every week for six months, and the military just as dutifully denied each and every one of them.

Then fate smiled upon me, after six months, I received an opportunity from out of the blue. The surveillance unit at Kimpo Airbase needed volunteers to ride right seat on a ferry mission to; you guessed it, Viet-fucking-nam. When I heard that, the dust didn't get a chance to settle on my behind before I was at the Orderly Room signing up. I waited in heart throbbing anxiety for two days, and then the list of volunteers that had been accepted was posted on the bulletin board. I was the first to see the list. Since I had been dogging the Orderly Room, day in and day out, making a general nuisance of myself, it was only reasonable that I would see it first and everyone else knew the list was posted when they heard my whoop of triumph as I read my name. I proceeded to dance around the Orderly Room in joy and ecstasy; I had a plan.

I immediately rushed to my room and packed the light duffel I would be allowed to take with me to the land my of opportunity. This took me the better part of ten minutes. I then said good-by to the rest of my shit and proceeded to make my rounds bidding all my friends farewell, for you see I had no intentions of ever returning to this place. I intended to take this ride to Vietnam and when I reached that point I would disappear and join a line unit somewhere in country, after all, what the hell could they do about it? Send me back, maybe, but not likely, court marshal me, possible, but again not likely. The concept of them sending a warm and willing body to jail for wanting to kill in the name of their country was inconceivable. It was perfect.

That evening me and some of my buddies went drinking and whoring in the village for what, I was sure, would be my very last time. Just before it was time to go back to camp my drunken pals and I ran into some drunken wing nuts (that's members of the Air Force) and we decided to get me back into a fighting mode. So...we attacked.� What ensued was a melee with a tremendous amount of swinging, and cursing, and falling down, but very little contact. This procedure lasted until everyone was sitting on the ground gasping for breath. We all then decided to go to one more bar and have a Battle-well-fought drink, so we could part as friends. All in all, I considered my final night in country to be a roaring success; I fell asleep that night content and dreamed of war, and destiny.

The next morning there were fourteen of us boarding the bus to Kimpo Airbase and my journey had begun. The bus ride was relatively quiet and most slept or read as the bus rolled along. I, however, was far to excited to participate in either of those activities, so I planned to the smallest detail what I would do when I reached my destination.

Things were finally looking up for me. When the bus pulled up to the front gate of the airfield at somewhere around ten that morning and we all looked up from what we were doing to watch the activity going on as we entered Zoomie land, that's another reference to Air Force people. There were aircraft of various sizes and types coming and going in a number of different ways, some were being towed; some taxied; some hovered; some weren't doing jack. It was all pretty mundane until we spotted a small black dot coming over the not too distant mountaintops; it grew in size until you could see it was a C130 transport plane. Everyone on the bus waited in anticipation, as the big plane became more defined against the gray morning sky. When the plane took on the appearance of a pregnant goose, its short thick wings and fat wide body, stood out sharp against the cool gray of the sky, I looked at the others on the bus and saw the looks of excited expectation that I knew would be there. We had all taken this ride before; I looked back to the sky as a collective gasp hissed from the lips of everyone on the bus. There were several nervous laughs as we watched what we all knew was coming, the C130's stubby wings suddenly dipped and it began a downward spiral that caused some of our stomachs to churn as they had when we experienced the gut wrenching descent months before. We knew that onboard the plane there were many stomachs turning, some assholes puckering, some breakfast coming up, many prayers being hastily composed, and some of the weaker ones were shedding a few tears right about now. My heart went out to them, but only for a second, It was part of the dues that had to be paid. I had paid mine; it was their turn.

Anyway I was there for a far more important reason and the bus pulled away from the front gate. I was only minutes away from destiny. As it turned out I had to spend another day in Korea and this really put my patience to the test, just like right now. Lets just skip any mention of the boring night I spent there and the dull entirely to long flight I endured and jump right to my destination-VIETNAM. Nope, I can't do that.

Most of the flight out of Kimpo Airbase was either in the clouds or over water until we landed for refueling at someplace in Taiwan, then we flew over water with land barely visible out the right window. I was told that the land in the distance was China and that was why we were flying of the coast and low down, we didn't want to violate their airspace. Later that day we banked directly toward that land in the distance and picked up altitude as we approached the shoreline and a reflection of concrete and glass that turned out to be Hong Kong. We flew over the city and on into the interior; I then inquired about the subject of air space and violations and such and was told that I should shut up. After we had pushed on for almost an hour the whole flight of aircraft climbed higher until we were all in the heavy clouds at altitude and unless I miss my guess what was happening in my craft was taking place in all the others as well. When we reached altitude and leveled out the pilot began bringing the SLAR system on line and into operation. He, the pilot, looked at me, grinned and said it was time to test the system.

I asked if we weren't still over China. He said yes, but only for the next ten minutes or so and then we'd be over North Vietnam, working. This was way cool. I know, I know, some of you want to know what SLAR is, well that stands for Side Looking Airborne Radar = SPY SHIT! YAHOO. Anyway, we flew like that for an hour or so before the pilot shut the spy stuff off and we dropped to where I could see an unbroken sea of green below us. The land spread out beneath me, eight different shades of green with splashes of brown and yellow and an occasional seam of blue; the pilot looked at me and said, "Welcome to Vietnam, ma man." I looked back at him and replied, "Oh yea, dig it brother, dig it." He of course looked at me as if he were seeing something strange and troubling for the first time. I paid him no attention, my heart was pumping adrenaline all through my body and it was all I could do to keep from pulling the cord on my Martin & Baker, that's the ejection seat in the airplane. Got ya before you could ask, didn't I?

Now, before I go on, there is an important question I must ask-Does anybody out there remember how this all started? For those of you who do, congratulations; you who don't and admit it, bless you; you who don't care, your already blessed; everyone else, this is still about the blindfold that is used by our society to cripple the perceptions of our young. That's right, some of you who thought you did, didn't; some of you who thought you didn't, did; There are those who didn't care, but really do. Me...I forgot, so I went back to the beginning of the story and found out. Yes you can do that. That's just the way we are, so don't freak on me O.K. Anyway, our birds began to land and what followed was one of those enlightening and life altering experiences.

As the landing gear of the first plane touched the runway the air was rent by a series of high pitched whines, or whistles, and suddenly the runway began to disintegrate into tiny flying bits and pieces. In other words, the shit hit the fan. As each of the planes taxied to a halt the occupants, there of, dismounted in great haste, myself included. As we hauled ass toward the bunkers and safety the whistling noise, explosions, and flying debris followed us. From the entrances to the bunkers we could see that a number of people were cheering and waving; whistling and jeering; laughing and hooting; and otherwise thoroughly enjoying themselves. I probably would have been very irate with this behavior at another time, but at that moment I was rather busy. There was a deafening roar and dirt and asphalt screamed passed my ears and I surged ahead of the others to the enjoyment of many of those in the bunkers. As I closed the distance between myself and the nearest bunker I launched myself into what I am sure would have been an Olympic Gold Medal long jump. In fact, when I left the ground everyone in the bunker door stopped all activity and watched in stunned amazement as I soared toward the entrance. They almost failed to get out of my way as I landed a good four or five feet inside the door. I was immediately mobbed by a number of cheering, whooping, and laughing GI's, who lifted me to my feet, slapped me on the back and shook my hand. I learned later that they were the ones who had bet on me, apparently I had been a long shot on getting to the bunkers...Period. I was much to tired to give a shit or take offense.

I also found out at a later time that all flights were greeted in the same manner. I would enjoy the experience several more times before I could put the experience behind me forever. That's because the procedure was repeated the next day as we took off in the replacement birds on our way to Bangkok, Thailand, and two months later as we returned on our way back to Korea. All in all, I went through this procedure four times before we returned to Kimpo airfield.

When we landed in Korea, I know, I know...your asking, what happened to my carefully laid plan to join the battle for freedom and the American way of life. Revelation...WAR SUCKS! The experience of those landings and take-offs, into and out of Vietnam changed the whole face of war for me. No longer could I envision war as the glorious confrontation of enemies, face to face, will against will, good against evil, mano-a-mano. No, that was no longer a viable position to support. As those mortar shells rained death and destruction around me at that airfield in Vietnam, it came to me with a clarity that is reserved for near death experiences and marriage vows. Yes, I suddenly realized, in war you could be maimed or killed and never even see who did it. The John Wayne-remember the blind fold-concept of war was blasted from my mind.

In any case the very first thing I did when we landed at Kimpo was thank the lord for deliverance and rush to the bus back to Yong Song compound in beautiful Seoul, Korea. The first thing I did upon reaching the compound was go to Battalion Headquarters and request the immediate revocation of any and every request for transfer I had ever applied for, or dreamed of applying for. At that moment, Corporal Retard, his real name was Mitchel, who I had been bothering for the duration of my tour, with an excessive amount of enjoyment, handed me a thick manila envelope. He was nearly pissing in his pants in his eagerness as I opened the envelope; inside I found a set of orders, a letter of congratulations, and the approval of my last request for Inter-Theater Transfer.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The ultimate truism, be careful what you ask for, you just may get it.