My Service in Vietnam
Guest Post by Nathan Phillips
by Thomas Wictor
https://www.quodverum.com/2019/01/23/my-service-in-vietnam.html
I joined the United States Marine Corps on May 21, 1972. By that time, the Vietnam War was so unpopular that the recruiters spat on me and called me a baby killer.
“Do you mean I kill babies, or I’m an infant who kills?” I asked.
The recruiters said that I was racist and built a wall around me. This was a shock; being an indigenous person, I’d never seen a wall. Where I grew up, the roofs of all the houses float in midair. But when I wept and banged my drum and moaned, the wall came tumbling, tumbling down.
“You heap big magic man!” the recruiters screamed and signed me up. After I was sworn in, they told me that the marines had abolished basic training. They promoted me to brigadier general and sent me to Vietnam by carrier pigeon. It was a huge pigeon, with a wingspan of 97 miles.
I volunteered to serve as door gunner, even though the pigeon had no doors. They stationed me at the cloaca, where I manned—I mean personed—a fully automatic Kentucky rifle. The rules of engagement prohibited me from firing at anything, under any circumstances. When a Chinese MiG-21 jet fighter closed in, the pigeon ordered me to raise my middle finger at the pilot as energetically as I could.
The MiG veered away; I saw the pilot shake his fist and vomit into his oxygen mask so violently that for a moment he looked like a daisy.
In all my dreams, he plunges at me–guttering, choking, drowning.
And vomiting.
And shaking his fist.
The Chinese make fists in an unusual way.
As weapons, Chinese fists are absolutely useless. It’s one of the many things I learned during my four years in Vietnam. I had to engage limp-fisted Chinese in combat more times then I can count.
Hold on.
I just counted the times that I engaged limp-fisted Chinese in combat in Vietnam.
Zero.
1/3