exercise, which accelerated when Meston and McCollum entered with two recovered Communist weapons in their hands.
“Look what we got!” boasted Mr. Meston as he held up an AK-47 and McCollum showed off an Enfield rifle. “We found the sampan, full of holes, along with these rifles, three rifle grenades, a paddle, and a cooking pan.”
“What about the dinks?” Funkhouser shouted.
“Probably washed downstream,” answered Lieutenant Meston, setting the AK-47 on a table.
“Shark meat!” someone yelled, and all of us shouted
hoo-yah!
and raised our glasses high.
McCollum wasted no time dropping a five-spot on the counter and grabbing a beer before heading for the piano. He drank half the beer in one swig, set it on top of the piano, then sat down on the piano bench. After playing a short introduction, he began to sing:
“Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care?
Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care now?”
As he went through the words again, everyone joined in. Bucklew hoisted his glass over his head, splashing beer on himself and on my back, as I happened to be the fortunate one standing in front of him. But I wasonly momentarily irritated. Five beers and a dozen songs later, I was not worried much about anything. And five beers after that, I was the one doing the splashing.
One of the SEALs from Echo Platoon made a big show out of downing two beers in ten seconds, then challenged Foxtrot Platoon to beat his feat.
“No problem,” I retorted. “Just give me a minute.” I spent the next few minutes searching the dark and dusty places of the building until I found what I needed to win the bet: a cockroach.
With all eyes upon me, I pinched the cockroach between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, while with my left I lined up two beers on the bar counter in front of me. After a final look into the fuzzy, bug-eyed face of the two-inch insect, I tossed it into my mouth and chewed it in half. Then I swallowed the two beers as fast as I could.
“Nineteen seconds!” someone from Echo Platoon bellowed. “You lose, Smitty!”
I coughed and said, “The cockroach is crawlin’ back up my throat.”
One SEAL from Echo Platoon ran out of the Quonset hut, hands cupped over his mouth.
McCollum watched the man go, then hollered, “It looks to me like Smitty won!” My platoon buddies shouted several
hoo-yahs
in agreement.
The party continued nonstop for nine hours, with many of the 230 men on base making an appearance. The Seabees who worked the day shift were the last to show, but by the time they did, I was too inebriated to care.
At 2100 hours, after countless beers and shuffleboard games, I called it quits and wended my way to the barracks and my bed. I remembered tucking in the mosquitonetting and my head hitting the pillow, but that was all I remembered.
The next morning, despite headaches and hangovers, our entire platoon of fourteen men was awake at 0600 hours for breakfast, and at 0730 were assembled for calisthenics. All of us were wearing UDT swim trunks and lightweight tennis shoes. A few men wore T-shirts, but the rest were bare-chested, including me.
Lieutenant Meston told me to lead the PT, which I did. After half an hour of vigorous exercises, everyone was perspiring heavily, which was good. I’d found PT to be the best way of sweating out all the beer I’d consumed at a party.
When I finished guiding the platoon through the numerous routines, Meston ordered a six-mile run. That put a smile on my face, as I loved to run. At six feet, two inches, and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, lean and mean, with a good pair of lungs, I was blessed with a runner’s body and the ability to fly. Bucklew, who was another running enthusiast, and I grabbed the front and led the others out the gate of the ten-acre naval base and onto a narrow, hard-packed gravel road. The road extended all the way to Saigon, which was seven miles
“Look what we got!” boasted Mr. Meston as he held up an AK-47 and McCollum showed off an Enfield rifle. “We found the sampan, full of holes, along with these rifles, three rifle grenades, a paddle, and a cooking pan.”
“What about the dinks?” Funkhouser shouted.
“Probably washed downstream,” answered Lieutenant Meston, setting the AK-47 on a table.
“Shark meat!” someone yelled, and all of us shouted
hoo-yah!
and raised our glasses high.
McCollum wasted no time dropping a five-spot on the counter and grabbing a beer before heading for the piano. He drank half the beer in one swig, set it on top of the piano, then sat down on the piano bench. After playing a short introduction, he began to sing:
“Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care?
Hail! Hail! The gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care now?”
As he went through the words again, everyone joined in. Bucklew hoisted his glass over his head, splashing beer on himself and on my back, as I happened to be the fortunate one standing in front of him. But I wasonly momentarily irritated. Five beers and a dozen songs later, I was not worried much about anything. And five beers after that, I was the one doing the splashing.
One of the SEALs from Echo Platoon made a big show out of downing two beers in ten seconds, then challenged Foxtrot Platoon to beat his feat.
“No problem,” I retorted. “Just give me a minute.” I spent the next few minutes searching the dark and dusty places of the building until I found what I needed to win the bet: a cockroach.
With all eyes upon me, I pinched the cockroach between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, while with my left I lined up two beers on the bar counter in front of me. After a final look into the fuzzy, bug-eyed face of the two-inch insect, I tossed it into my mouth and chewed it in half. Then I swallowed the two beers as fast as I could.
“Nineteen seconds!” someone from Echo Platoon bellowed. “You lose, Smitty!”
I coughed and said, “The cockroach is crawlin’ back up my throat.”
One SEAL from Echo Platoon ran out of the Quonset hut, hands cupped over his mouth.
McCollum watched the man go, then hollered, “It looks to me like Smitty won!” My platoon buddies shouted several
hoo-yahs
in agreement.
The party continued nonstop for nine hours, with many of the 230 men on base making an appearance. The Seabees who worked the day shift were the last to show, but by the time they did, I was too inebriated to care.
At 2100 hours, after countless beers and shuffleboard games, I called it quits and wended my way to the barracks and my bed. I remembered tucking in the mosquitonetting and my head hitting the pillow, but that was all I remembered.
The next morning, despite headaches and hangovers, our entire platoon of fourteen men was awake at 0600 hours for breakfast, and at 0730 were assembled for calisthenics. All of us were wearing UDT swim trunks and lightweight tennis shoes. A few men wore T-shirts, but the rest were bare-chested, including me.
Lieutenant Meston told me to lead the PT, which I did. After half an hour of vigorous exercises, everyone was perspiring heavily, which was good. I’d found PT to be the best way of sweating out all the beer I’d consumed at a party.
When I finished guiding the platoon through the numerous routines, Meston ordered a six-mile run. That put a smile on my face, as I loved to run. At six feet, two inches, and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, lean and mean, with a good pair of lungs, I was blessed with a runner’s body and the ability to fly. Bucklew, who was another running enthusiast, and I grabbed the front and led the others out the gate of the ten-acre naval base and onto a narrow, hard-packed gravel road. The road extended all the way to Saigon, which was seven miles
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