“If I can find the Gulf of Tonkin for you, General, do you think you could drive a boat? With those few good men you’re so proud of?”
The commandant took a deep breath, adjusted his tunic, looked around the room, stopping momentarily on the face of each of the President’s aides, the CIA pizza man—Gearheardt gave him a thumbs up—and finally met the eyes of his commander in chief.
“Mr. President, to get a chance to knock the snot out of those prissy bastards in the Navy, I could drive a covered wagon through the Himalayas.” He stood and saluted. “I didn’t mean it about the year’s pay, though. Little woman’d be on my ass.”
“Didn’t figure you meant it, Lester. Good luck. My boys here will brief you when we get it all figured out.”
“Yessir!” replied the commandant of the Marine Corps, a happy man.
On his way out, Gearheardt stopped him. “General, I’m a Marine,” he whispered. “The CIA took me as a child.”
The general pulled back and felt for his sidearm but remembered that it had been taken by the Secret Service. “Marines don’t deliver pizza, son. Get ahold of yourself.”
Gearheardt tightened his grip on the general’s arm. “Did the President say anything about my suggestion? You know, the …”He made a pistol of his hand and held it to his temple, pulling the imaginary trigger. “I couldn’t hear with all your laughing and humming.”
The commandant tore his arm free. He just wanted to get away and enjoy the prospect of shelling the Navy. He rubbed his forearm where Gearheardt had grabbed him.
“Damn,” he said and backed out of the room.
Gearheardt rubbed his chin. “Diem, eh? I thought he was mostly dead.” He turned to the President and his aides. “Sir, if I may interject, when we go to help a country, the boys down at the pizza palace,” he winked, “believe it sometimes gets us off on the wrong foot to shoot the leader—”
“Who the hell are you again?” the President demanded.
“Last call for pizza,” Gearheardt said, loading his cart.
As Gearheardt left, pushing the cart of crusts and soda bottles, he saw the President reach under the edge of his desk. “Mary Elizabeth,” he said into an unseen microphone, “get that wiseass with the slick hair on the phone and tell him to get his ass over here. We got some plannin’ to do.”
4 • The President Rallies the Troops
(or Tallies the Roops, for Those Reading While Drunk)
Gearheardt and I were at Camp David in the Naval Intelligence tent weeks after he had overheard the President in the Oval Office. The four services (screw the Coast Guard, the orders said) had been directed to send their top men to Camp David for an important briefing with the President. Two or three hundred thousand soldiers, sailors, and airmen were milling about on the grounds. None of the services wanted to have fewer “best” men than the other services, so the number had gotten out of hand.
“Why are we in the Naval Intelligence tent, Gearheardt? We’re Marines, and all of these damn swabbies are looking at us funny.”
“If you mean why aren’t we in Marine Intelligence, say that to yourself five times quickly. This is the only place we can learn anything. That’s why the squadron asked me to pull some strings and get us here.” He smiled at the lieutenant commander who was glaring at him.
“He didn’t mean you, sir,” Gearheardt said, “he meant all of the other damn swabbies.”
Gearheardt smiled until the commander turned away.
“The skipper knows that the other services will try to get all the good places to bomb, not to mention live and get hooch maids. So he wants us to get what info we can from the Navy. The Marine Intelligence crew lost their orders and went back to Camp Lejeune.”
A stage had been prepared for the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who sat sleepily on folding chairs in a semicircle around a lectern and microphone. The President was waiting impatiently under a large oak near the platform. No one had thought to bring musical instruments, so playing “Hail to the Chief” was difficult. Finally the Marine Corps band leader stepped up on the edge of the platform.
“Dut, du du dut, du du DUUHH,” he sang.
“Well Lord love a duck,” the President said. “Is that it?” Without waiting for an answer from his fear-stricken aides, he strode toward the wooden structure and, proving he was as much a man as any of them, ignored the stairs and vaulted to the platform, almost. He hit his testicles on the corner and fell in a fetal position on the stage, holding his crotch. The Joint Chiefs were too busy saluting to notice, but the Marine bandleader sang “Hail to the Chief” again. Two black-suited Secret Service agents helped the President to his feet, brushing the dust from his coat until he angrily knocked their hands away.
He stepped to the podium and looked out at the sea of faces, the green utilities of the Army, the sharp white uniforms of the Navy, the camouflaged battle dress of the Marines, and the blue-striped robes over light blue pajamas of the Air Force. Having the most airplanes, the Air Force had arrived early and were down front in lawn chairs holding coffee cups, which they raised in tribute to the President as he swept his scowl by them.
“Good morning, military,” the president boomed, grabbing his crotch, which strained painfully at the effort of booming. “Shitfire,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. President. Shitfire,” the military responded.
“I’ll make this quick, men. Then I got to get me a crotch rub.” No one laughed.
“I’d better get right to the point, since it appears that the Lithuanian Girl Scouts could march in and take over the country, since the best of the military is grab-assing around here right now.” He glared back at the Joint Chiefs. Then turned back to the crowd.
“I have called you here today to give you some good news. I have decided and asked the pussies in—I mean the Congress to grant me those powers to do what I have to do. Which is to send you boys over to Veetman to kick some ass! What do you say?” He raised his arms over his head.
“They’re all queers in Congress,” the Marine commandant said, mostly to himself, since no one else paid any attention to him.
In the silence, an Army corporal near the Air Force coffee station farted. The President turned again to the Joint Chiefs, his arms still raised, his face purple.
“Is this our military?” he asked sarcastically. Luckily, Naval Intelligence had figured out that the President had meant Vietnam, not Veetman, and passed the word to the swabbies to start cheering, knowing that the Vietnamese had shit for a navy and that they were not in much danger from any retaliation for sitting off the coast and lobbing Volkswagen-sized shells at native huts two or three miles away. The Army started cheering, probably because the Navy started cheering, and the Marines started yelling for the Army to shut the fuck up, but it sounded like cheering anyway, and it woke most of the Air Force officers and made them spill their coffee. Those with burns were immediately passed Air Medals and Purple Hearts by the administrative staff set up under the stage.
The President faced the crowd, his arms high, the sweat circles in his armpits huge. He launched into a long harangue about the greatness of America, the danger to our Navy from North Veetman boats—this sent Naval Intelligence back to their books—and the fighting tradition of the U.S. military of which he was once a proud member. A few thousand men actually stopped scratching their asses and adjusting their Jockey shorts and listened.
“Men,” the President said, “I have gathered you here today so that we, your leaders and I, could share with you the great truths and present dangers of not responding to this grave threat.” He began to sound like the Baptist preacher he once was.
When at last he paused, he turned to the Joint Chiefs. One was dozing, one cleaning his fingernails with his bayonet, and the other two, the Chief of Naval Operations and the four-star Air Force general, were playing rock, paper, scissors. The president called them to attention. The commandant of the Marine Corps assumed that the president meant everyone, so he scr
eamed out “Marine Corps, A-TIIINN-SHUN.” The Army chief was trying to convince the President that he had been praying, not sleeping, and the four-star Air Force general was ordering a sergeant to pass the word that attention meant standing up straight and looking straight ahead but he wasn’t sure if it meant saluting or not, so every other Air Force guy should salute.
Two or three hundred thousand men were grab-assing around in various uniforms, some at attention, some saluting, and some who had brought guitars were singing “I want to go home, I want to go home, Oh how I want to go home” even though they were just at Camp David and part of something grand in a bizarre sort of way with the sky opening up to blue and burning off the low-lying mist of piss steam, morning farts, and the general belching and braying miasma of healthy young men.
The President returned to the microphone, and after a few minutes everybody quieted down except for the guys with guitars, who were all trying to be the first to think up a song about fighting in Vietnam and how terrible it was and how lonely they were and how the troops knew everything and the officers were dumb shits and trying to think of words that rhymed with “Vietnam,” until a few noncommissioned officers ordered some of the soldiers to beat the crap out of the singers and break their guitars, which a lot of soldiers were only real happy to do. Then it was quiet.
“Men,” the President began, “that’s the spirit. And I couldn’t help but notice that over half of the Air Force saluted. I damn sure won’t forget that come budget time. Heh heh.” He looked at the four-star Air Force general, who beamed and saluted in a squat, not knowing whether he was supposed to stand at attention or stay seated.
“Now a few minutes ago, I promised a truthful explanation of why I have decided to send the best of America’s boys over to some God-awful place to be maimed, crippled, all blown up, and yes, killed.” He paused, and the wind could be heard in the tops of the trees lining the parade ground where they were all assembled.
“I don’t want any of you—and let’s be realistic, there’ll be a shit pot full—getting all crippled up and coming back here and saying ‘Hey, what the hell. Nobody told me about being maimed or anything.’ Okay? Now there’s lots of commanders in chief of little pissant countries that send their boys out without a thought of eyes shot out, arms and legs missing, and those wounds you boys always seem to get where you have to carry those little bags around to shit and piss in. Not me, and not the good old U.S. of A.” He smiled for a moment as if he thought those little piss bags were kind of funny. Then turned serious again.
“And we’ll have our share killed. Make no doubt about it. I don’t expect uneducated cannon fodder, and I don’t mean you boys of course, but just any old cannon fodder, which is of course just a military expression like latrine or body bag, anyway none of you is expected to understand the historical perspective, and certainly not the global perspective of this action I am taking. That is the job of the President, and I intend to do my duty just like you will intend to do yours. But as I was sayin’, the good news is that those that choose or are chosen to be dead will not have to worry about comin’ back home and whining about being a cripple or another type of invalid.” He stopped and looked at his audience, trying to find someone who at least had the appearance of listening to him.
“Now I’ll just ask the Joint Chiefs to say a few words about their views on our excursion to foreign shores.”
All of the chiefs tried to avoid eye contact except for the Marine commandant, who had not been listening and was smiling stupidly at the Air Force boys in the front row.
“How about you, General?” the president said.
“How about me what, sir?”
“How about you gettin’ up here and saying a few words about why we’re going to Veetman.”
The commandant slowly rose to his feet, his smile gone. “Was that in those papers you sent over, Mr. President?” he asked.
The President squinched his eyes and stuck out his lower chin. Before he said anything, the commandant approached him and whispered, “Is this about that Navy deal, Mr. President? You told me not to tell anyone.”
“It’s not about the Navy deal, you horse’s ass. Sit down.”
The Army general snickered at the bewildered look on the commandant’s face.
“Well, since you seem to think it’s so funny, soldier boy. Why don’t you come on up to the microphone and give it a try?”
The Army general smiled as if holding a secret. He stuck his hand into his tunic, a look of panic on his face when he withdrew it empty. He slapped his pockets.
“General, let’s shake a leg,” the President said.
“I don’t have my notes, sir.”
“I don’t give a shit, general. Get your ass over here.”
The Army general wasn’t an Army general for nothing. Quickly pulling himself together, he strode to the podium. He stood there like Patton, waiting, in fact, for a giant American flag to rise slowly behind the stage as practiced secretly the night before. In the quiet of the moment, he heard arguing and cursing coming from below the stage. The Air Force administrative types had evidently unplugged the electric motor that was to raise the flag in order to plug in half a dozen coffee pots. A squad of Green Berets rushed under the stage. Sounds of a beating rose until the Army general stomped his foot on the stage. The beating sounds stopped.
“Men, I know first of all that you join me in thanking our president for giving us the opportunity to show a little two-bit country what good old American boys are made of.” He paused and snuck a look at the President, hoping that hadn’t sounded like an attempt at a pun. He quickly went on. “Now when you boys get to Vietnam, I want you to keep in mind just two things. And those two things are Hearts and Minds.” He stopped and looked over at the President again. The President was staring at a spot about two feet in front of his shoes, biting his lip and shaking his head from side to side. The Army chief tried to dart past him to reach his chair. The President was too fast for him and grabbed his elbow.
“I asked you to tell them why we’re sending them to Veetman, for Christ’s sake. What was that shit about hearts and minds?” The President’s face was glowing in the sun streaking through the trees.
“Well, we’re supposed to win them, sir. The hearts and minds of the people. Didn’t I explain that part? Did I forget to say that?” He was crestfallen.
“But what in the blasted blue blazes does that have to do with why we’re sending them in the first place, you nincompoop?”
“I lost my notes, Mr. President. And the Air Force screwed up the flag. It wasn’t my fault.”
“That’s what the military always says,” the President said, pushing him away. “Sit down.”
The Army chief stomped back to his folding chair. The Marine commandant, a smirk covering his entire face, looked over at him and whispered loudly.
“Hearts and minds?” he snickered. “You sons-a-bitches in the Army are getting as goofy as the goddam Air Force. You boys holding your secret psy-ops classes together now?” He covered his mouth with his hand and snorted into it.
The Army chief couldn’t resist a retort even though out of the corner of his eye he saw the President glowering at him.
“You ignorant pea-brain. The only reason you joined the Marine Corps was that they didn’t have an IQ requirement except that it couldn’t be over seventy-five. You don’t—”
“Naw,” the commandant interrupted, “I joined the Marine Corps ’cause I wasn’t queer, soldier boy.”
The President stomped his foot, drawing their attention. “Knock off the grabass,” he said, getting a giggle from the Air Force chief, sitting just to the right of the purple-faced President.
“Your turn, peckerwood,” he said, thumping the four-star general on the back of the head.
Before the general could rise, a Secret Service man ran up the stairs to the platform and took the President aside.
“Sir,” he said, “the CIA sends word that they are ready to brief you when yo
u arrive at Langley.”
“They were supposed to be here, dagnabbit. I ain’t drivin’ all the way down there to hear them give me that shit about how many people live in Veetman and what the damn crops are. Tell ’em to get their butts up here pronto.”
“Sir,” the man in the black suit and sunglasses said, lowering his voice, “the CIA said that they couldn’t leave headquarters right now. They have word of an impending attack on the U.S. Navy. The Agency is having their top men buy a ship-building yard in Mobile as we speak and will be manufacturing high-speed patrol boats by next weekend. Then they will have covert operatives disguised as boat salesmen working in the Tonkin Gulf by March. That’s what they told me to tell you, sir. Oh, and they’re out of money. They said you’d know what to do.”
The President hung his head. He looked old and tired, and the war hadn’t even started. He rubbed his forehead.
“You ready for me now, Mr. President?” the Air Force general asked. He was on his feet and moving to the podium. The President didn’t look up but nodded his head yes and gave a weak wave of his hand toward the general.
As the Marine commandant was sneaking off the stage, having overheard enough of the report about the CIA to know he should never have told the bastards, the four-star general of the Air Force looked out over the once tree-covered rolling hills, now denuded of all vegetation as only a quarter of a million teenagers with bayonets and entrenching tools could make them. In the distance the sun shone fiercely on the figures of two Secret Service men staked out on the ground Apache-torture style, having foolishly tried to arrest an Army private for urinating on a presidential rhododendron.
The general lifted his hat, ran his hand back over his gray crewcut, and then squared the hat firmly on his brow. He stuck out his chest and drew himself to his full height. His wings and medals gleamed in the warm sun. A gentle breeze clinked the fasteners against the flagpole atop which Old Glory undulated.
“Bomb the enemy,” he said. “Wherever they may be. For wherever bold men come forth to, to …” He stuttered and wrinkled his handsome brow. “ … so we’ll bomb to beat the band or else we’ll know the reason why … in the halls of …”
Nam-A-Rama Page 5
