by William C. Crawford
Infantry soldiers in the Nam detested lifer bullshit. Except for when we were in direct contact with Victor Charlie, our top priorities focused mostly on beer, drugs, mail, and sex–depending on personal proclivities.
~
Written regs and proper military procedures were dismissed as absurd aberrations valued only in strack garrison life back in The World. By 1969, growing anti-war sentiment and the hippie drug culture had infiltrated the ethos of our jungle based infantry.
~
Changes in our lifer leadership: company commanders, platoon leaders, and senior NCO’s, were viewed with true trepidation. We were primarily draftees, and we followed orders (for the most part) in combat, but many grunts nurtured grave doubts about the competence of the Green Machine.
~
We knew from chilling experience that we were just obscure cogs in a fucked up military apparatus that clunked along in pursuit of aberrational combat, and foreign policy objectives. Our superiors passed down daily sketchy orders reinforcing the widely held axiom that inside the Machine shit flowed downhill even as we resided at the bottom.
~
As our First Sergeant (Top!) rotated to a new assignment, we imagined a big impending shitstorm. A new Top, fresh from uptight stateside duty, could pose real trouble. Things might even permanently tighten up! We prepared for his arrival with apprehension. Some grunts hid their grass in stashes around Landing Zone West. A few shaved for the first time in weeks. Peace signs, hippie jewelry, and anti-war slogans on helmets disappeared.
~
Top arrived precisely on schedule: sawed off and very Italian. Fast talking, raspy, and really loud! He would meet us en masse at an early morning formation. Our collective anxiety approached grief!
~
We stood at disheveled attention in our assigned platoons. No officers in sight, just us enlisted stiffs. An early arriving Chinook strafed us with stinging grit and dust from its powerful prop wash.
~
As the big bird finally lifted away, we were still locked at attention waiting for Top’s next (first!) move. He puffed up to his full 5’-6’’ and thrust out his barrel chest with ceremonious pomposity. (Here it comes!)
~
From his inflated, keg like body, we heard these words grating from deep within his chest: “Mastrovito is my name,” he roared. “And masturbation is my game.”
~
Hardened combat vets laughed until we were bawling. Somewhere down the adjacent bunker line a cassette player boomed out Joe Cocker. It was, after all, 1969. And we were still alive, unsafe most of the time, and trapped in the Nam. But we were laughing with a squared away lifer.
William C. Crawford is a writer and photographer based in Winston Salem, NC. He was a combat photojournalist for the US Army in Vietnam.
ISSUED 