Deros Vietnam

Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Page B

Book: Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Read Free Book Online
Authors: Doug Bradley
Tags: War
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showed.
    Eventually, Ward walked over to the TV and turned it off. Nobody said a word.
    â€œNow hear this,” Nevin jumped up and contorted his face like James Cagney in the movie “Mr. Roberts.” “Now hear this. All contributions to tonight’s war widows and pensioners retirement fund will be immediately returned to their rightful owners.”
    He was trying hard to lift our spirits. A few of the guys started to smile. “It has come to our attention that the commanding officers of Room 222 have gone AWOL and been replaced by hard-charging lifers in need of a promotion,” Nevin pointed his finger in the direction of USARV headquarters. “We regret any inconvenience this may have caused. I repeat, all contributions will be returned.”
    Nevin handed back the wagering materials as most of the guys cleared out. A few of us lingered, feeling let down, deceived.
    â€œThey didn’t have to remind us we were in Vietnam,” Ward was pointing at the TV. “That’s just not fucking fair.”

The Medium is the Message
    â€œWho the fuck watches TV in Vietnam?” Kenny Martin asked me that question the one night he spent in our hooch. He was on his way back up north after some in-country R&R. He’d just come off several rough weeks in the field, and he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to get high.
    So we drank a few beers and reminisced about college, about coeds, and mostly about the days we’d spent together washing dishes in the women’s dining hall. Even though Kenny and I later became fraternity brothers, it was those first few weeks together as freshmen, shaking our heads at the mountains of discarded food and trying like hell to differentiate Dawn Smith from Jackie Mills, seeing their midriffs as they came through the line that had forged a bond between us.
    Now here we were, doing our post-graduate work in Vietnam. One a grunt and the other a REMF. Still struggling to figure out who was who.
    There was so much that separated Kenny and me and our Vietnam experiences that we couldn’t even begin to talk about it, which is probably why we focused on the past. But reminiscing couldn’t make us forget where we were. Or where we were going. I was headed back to my job in the air-conditioned jungle in the morning while Kenny had to return to the real jungle. He wrote me later to say he’d asked for reassignment when he got back to his unit but was turned down. He wanted to be a REMF, he admitted, and it was all on account of the night we were together. It wasn’t on account of anything I said. It was what Kenny heard.
    As I blathered on about our college days, Kenny’s grunt ears perked up at the sound of something unusual. It was the din of our hooch TV blaring in the background. That now became our topic of conversation.
    â€œYou guys really have a TV?” he asked as if he’d just discovered gold. “And it works?” I nodded affirmatively and Kenny shook his head as if stunned to discover electricity in Vietnam.
    â€œWhat do you watch ?” he asked almost in a whisper.
    I didn’t want Kenny thinking we had all the comforts of home, so I tried downplaying the TV.
    â€œWe only see what the military brass wants us to see,” I lied. “None of it is any good.”
    Kenny wasn’t buying it.
    â€œSo you get news and sports and, like, real shows?” Kenny’s eyes were big as saucers.
    â€œThe news is censored, the games ended a week ago and the shows, well, it’s mostly old crap like Bonanza and Combat.”
    At the mention of Bonanza, the face of the young Kenny from college reemerged. He was somewhere else, with the galloping horses of the show’s theme song, watching the flames burn the map of the Cartwright spread.
    â€œWow,” his whole body spoke. “What I wouldn’t give to see an episode of Bonanza.”
    But Bonanza wasn’t on the AFVN

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