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May 13, 2004 This is Chapter I in my soon to be released book (The Saigon Zoo): June 11, 1968, the day I reluctantly joined the United States Army, is as vivid in my mind’s eye today as if it had happened yesterday. I awoke that morning with the intention of going to the beach to begin working on my summer tan. Unfortunately, it was a typical June day in Redondo Beach, California— extremely cloudy and overcast. Undaunted, I showered and put on my new Hawaiian Hang-10 trunks. Before heading outdoors, I grabbed my Bob Dylan beach towel, Styrofoam cooler, and transistor radio. The phone rang just as I was closing the door behind me. I momentarily debated whether or not to answer it. The fear of missing a better offer than a cloudy day at the beach sent me running for the phone. That decision would turn out to be the first of numerous small mistakes I would make in the course of that fateful day. The call was from John Soranno, my best friend who lived up the street. “Hey Peety boy, I gotta go somewhere important— wanna go with me, dude?” “Where?” I asked. “I can’t tell you—it’s a surprise. But you’ll be glad you came, I swear to God.” With that, John let loose his all too familiar cackle—one I had heard too many times before. It signaled a clear warning. John, who loved practical jokes, had something up his sleeve. br> “If you don’t tell me, I ain’t going! No way, man.” “It involves chicks and a party tonight with a keg.” I gave in. I was unwilling to take the chance of passing up two of my favorite things in life. “Are you driving?” I asked. “Ya, I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Be outside.” John hung up. I quickly changed and went out on my front lawn to wait for John. I was sure he was lying but decided there was nothing to lose by tagging along. John and I had been best friends for eight years and we did everything together. I soon heard the familiar roar of John’s ’55 metallic-blue Chevy coming from just up the street. Seconds later, the car screeched to a stop in front of my house. John was laughing as I got in and closed the door. “Okay, funny boy, where we goin’, and don’t BS me,” I demanded. “Guess?” John said cackling. “Lenny’s work.” “No.” “Danny’s sister’s house.” “No.” After six or seven incorrect guesses, I gave up. By now, we were a few miles from home, cruising down Hawthorne Boulevard toward the city of Inglewood. “John,” I screamed, “tell me what’s up or I swear to God, I’ll jump out at the next stop light. I swear to God, man!” I hoped the two “God” references would convince John to let me in on his little secret. br> “Okay, okay, don’t have a cow, dude. It’s groovy, it’s cool.” Funny boy was laughing again. “I’m joinin’ the Army, man. Gonna be a medic—can you believe that shit? I leave for Fort Ord next week to start basic training and then I go to Fort Hood, Texas—does that blow your mind? Kinky (John’s nickname) is gonna be a soldier boy.” John began shaking his head up and down at the prospect. “Okay Kinky, real funny, you’re a real Red Skelton. Now where are we really going? Your lazy ass wouldn’t last three days in the Army— make that three hours, Kinky.” John pulled the car to the curb and stopped laughing for the first time since he had picked me up. He pointed out of my window. I turned and read the sign hanging over the red brick building. A cold chill raced through my body. The sign read, “United States Army Recruiting Office—Inglewood.” Just under the sign was a large tacky red, white and blue painting of Uncle Sam. He was pointing at me, staring in my eyes and declaring, “I want you!” My mind raced as I tried to make sense out of this surreal situation. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be a logical, rational explanation. “John,” I said slowly, “first of all, you are shittin’ me, right? This is one of your tasteless, idiotic jokes, right?” I waited for John to confess and point out of the car window at Allen Funt and his Candid Camera crew emerging from behind the building. Instead, between his aggravating laughs, John laid out the unbelievable details. “Pete, I’m dead serious, man. I brought you with me so we could enlist together and go in on this great deal the Army calls the ‘buddy plan.’ It’ll be cool dude, together in Texas, training to be medics. How cool would that be? It’s only three years. Whatdaya say, Pete? Are you my buddy? Have you got the balls to join with me?” There was more grating laughter coming from this complete stranger behind the wheel of John’s car. It was now clear to me; I wasn’t on Candid Camera. I had entered The Twilight Zone. I was sure Rod Serling would appear any moment, cigarette in hand, to clear this nightmare up. The situation called for logic and clear, rational thinking—something I was well known for. “You are crazy, man—out of your empty skull, you idiot.” I was yelling and pointing at this person who had kidnapped me. “It’s 1968, ass- wipe—ever hear of Vietnam, ass-face? Ya, that’s right, there is a war there, ass-hole—people are getting blown away daily, ass-licker—you are an idiot, ass…” I paused. I had completely run out of derogatory ass references. “You’re a moron— what in the world is wrong with you? Really man, I mean it. What the Hell is wrong with your rotting brain? This makes no sense John, none. I thought this was gonna be our best summer ever, John, ever—the beach, chicks, beer and parties, remember those things? Don’t go in there. Let’s go home now, please man! Have you signed the papers yet? When did you decide to do this, and why didn’t you tell me? You’re a real dumb shit, I mean a real dumb shit! Let’s go home now—I don’t feel good, my stomach hurts.” I was completely drained. “Funny stuff Pete, really.” John remarked. “Now let’s go inside, I’m late.” “What? I’m not going in there with you. You are C-R-A-Z-Y. Don’t do this, John; you’ll regret it. It will ruin everything—please.” John just laughed, saluted me with the wrong hand, tossed me the keys so I could listen to the radio, and then strolled toward the recruiter’s office. Just before going inside, he glanced over his shoulder to see if I would follow but I held my ground. My head was spinning in all directions. How could anyone, especially my best friend, want to join the Army now? It was bad enough sweating out the draft every day, never knowing if your notice was coming. The daily mail delivery had become a stressful event in my life since the day I turned eighteen and had to register for the military draft. One thing I never considered was joining the military. If I had to go in one day, it would be kicking and screaming. Human nature got the best of me and I thought, better John than me. I settled down a bit, turned on the car radio, and tuned into my favorite station, KRLA. My eyes were closed as I sang along with the lyrics to Barry McGuire’s classic song, “Eve of Destruction.” I was jolted out of my musical trance by rapid knocking on the car window. There stood one of the Army recruiters smiling down at me. I instinctively locked the car door, but said nothing. “Pete, how’s it going today?” How did he know my name? John! I made my first vow of the day; in the near future, I would inflict severe pain on the body of John Soranno. “Pete, come in and have some coffee with us or a cold drink. John is going to be a while. Come on, it’s cooler inside.” The sergeant widened his phony smile and beckoned me out of the Chevy. I was frozen in place. Nothing was going to get me out of the car. I stared straight ahead. He went for the door. Nice try soldier boy, but it’s locked! The door opened. I suddenly remembered that all of John’s door locks were broken. I mentally decided on the tools to be used for John’s torture as I stood on my buckling legs and meekly followed the man inside. How had this happened? One hour ago, I was safe in my room, listening to “Light My Fire,” “Ruby Tuesday,” “The Letter,” “Judy in Disguise” and other timeless songs on my Pioneer 8-track tapeplayer. Now I was shuffling through a door held open by a massive Army sergeant whose occupation required him to trick young, naive, unsuspecting males (like me) into enlisting in the United States Army. My hastily devised plan was to sit still and say nothing. Don’t ask questions and do not, under any circumstances, answer questions. “Pete, this is Sergeant Johnson and I’m Sergeant Wilkins.” I nodded slightly. “Would you like some coffee or a Pepsi?” Sergeant Wilkins politely asked. I shook my head from side to side. “John is going to be about half an hour; would you like to look at some opportunities the Army has to offer young men like yourself?” Here comes the bullshit, I thought. Once again, side to side. I was doing well. “How old are you Pete?” Wilkins casually asked. “He was nineteen in March—March 6.” John was smiling as he cheerfully answered for me. “Is that correct, Pete?” Wilkins asked. “Nineteen years old and you haven’t gotten your draft notice yet? I’m surprised. It could be coming any day now.” Why was Sergeant Wilkins torturing me like this? Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? Why had I come with John today? What is that large, wet, sticky ball in my throat? In my desperate search for clarity and inner peace, I hadn’t noticed Sergeant Johnson making a phone call. When I heard my name mentioned by Johnson, I focused on the conversation. “Yes, Pete Whalon, that’s correct. He’s nineteen years old, born on March 6, 1949,” Johnson said to the person he was talking to on the phone. “Can you tell me when his draft notice is scheduled to be sent? Sure, I can hold.” My good buddy, Benedict Soranno, had been kind enough to supply the sergeant with my last name. Sergeant Johnson smiled and gave me a wink. I hastily made the decision that if some day I ended up in Vietnam and was fortunate enough to meet up with my old friend John, I would empty an entire clip from my M-16 into his body. I had not uttered a single syllable since I entered the recruiting office. I was holding true to my plan but things were unraveling quickly. With every ounce of strength remaining in my body, I asked, “What are you doing?” My voice was cracking. “I’m just checking to see if you’ve been assigned a draft date yet, Pete. Thought you might like to know if and when you will be drafted. Hold on, Pete.” Johnson began talking on the phone again. “Repeat that please. Thank you very much.” With a concerned look, the sergeant began writing on his notepad as soon as he “Interesting,” Johnson muttered as he joined Sergeant Wilkins toward the back of the room. I strained to hear but they were intentionally speaking softly. I glared at John. He smiled back, giving me another left-handed salute. Was he saluting me on purpose with his left hand, I wondered, or was he just a dumb shit? I decided that he was a dumb shit—the thought made me feel better momentarily. Smiling, the two sergeants approached me. Why was everyone in such a good mood? In contrast, I had cold sweats and a roaring stomach. My head ached and I couldn’t feel my legs. Johnson spoke first. “I’m going to give it to you straight, Pete.” The sergeant placed his hand on my right shoulder. “You’re not being drafted in July…” The words echoed in my head— “not being drafted.” Thank you God and all the saints! My prayers had been answered. I now knew how a death row inmate feels when he receives the last-minute Governor’s call granting him a stay of execution sparing his life. It felt good to be alive. Sergeant Johnson continued. “But you will be receiving your draft notice sometime in August, Pete.” “What?” I gagged. “Pete, don’t worry,” Wilkins said, chiming in. “The Army has many options for you to consider. There are ways you can avoid the draft by joining instead. If you join for three years, you are guaranteed the school of your choice.” Wilkins continued to jabber but I wasn’t listening. My arms had gone numb. John was laughing, pointing at me, calling me Private Whalon, and repeatedly saluting me with his left hand. The two sergeants were taking turns talking, trying to get me to look at their list of Army Occupational Specialties. Wilkins was smiling down at me like a vulture watching a severely wounded wildebeest take his final gasps for air. My body felt like it was getting smaller, like I was shrinking. Maybe I misunderstood what he said, I thought. Mustering up every ounce of strength in my decomposing body, I meekly whispered, “What?” Johnson, instinctively sensing that they had “broken” me, returned to his desk to complete the process of “committing” John to three years of military service. “Well Pete,” Wilkins persevered, “I think we can help you choose the right school for your training.” “Come on, Pete, go for it. Sign up and be a man,” John contributed. “Shut the Hell up, ass-hole!” I screamed at my former best friend. John laughed heartily, deriving great pleasure from my mental breakdown. “Yes sir, Private Whalon,” John responded. The two sergeants now laughed along with this person who had once cared about my welfare. My spirit was crushed. I was physically and mentally exhausted and it was only 11:15 in the morning. “Anyway,” Sergeant Wilkins began again, “you’re going to get your draft notice in late August, which means you will have two years of military service to fulfill. You will be sent to basic training at Fort Ord for eight weeks and then, most likely, sent to infantry training for another eight weeks. Pete, I have to be honest with you. Upon completing infantry training, most privates are sent to Vietnam.” There it was—that dreaded seven letter word, “VIETNAM”! An intrusive word, it was capable of provoking bizarre behavior from otherwise rational young men. It had sent some men sneaking off to Canada, and caused otherwise honest men to fake physical injuries. The word had motivated thousands of students to study harder in college to obtain better grades. I despised the sound of that word. It scared the Hell out of me. I wanted no part of Vietnam. I listened more intently. “Now Pete, it’s not as bad as it appears,” Wilkins said smiling down at me. “We can avoid the draft by enlisting for three years.” What did he mean, “we”? Was he going with me to basic training? “That way,” he continued, “you get to pick the training you want from our MOS list which offers over one hundred and sixty-five specialties. The Army has many exciting opportunities for young men.” I was soon to learn that the U.S. Army had an acronym for everything. “Okay Pete, I’m sure you have some questions for me. Go ahead.” Ya sarge, I do, I thought. Can I borrow your gun? Out loud I replied, “Are you sure I’m getting drafted in August?” It was the only question that seemed relevant at that moment. “Absolutely Pete!” the sergeant said, raising his right hand as if he were taking an oath. “If I get drafted, are you sure I’ll be sent to infantry training?” “Yes, you will be a grunt and you will go to Nam,” Sergeant Wilkins assured me. “Hey Pete, go medic baby and ship out with me next week—buddy plan, dude!” John was at it again. Ya John, that’s a great idea, I thought. They don’t need medical personnel in Vietnam, you brain dead circus clown! But instead, I said, “No thanks, John. I’d like to live through this experience if possible.” I had lost track of my vows of vengence. I turned to Sergeant Wilkins. “Sergeant, I planned to take a few trips this summer with some of my friends. If I join, what is the latest date I could go in? Can I put this thing off for a year?” I asked optimistically. After a short courtesy laugh, he answered, “Not that long, Pete. But we could have you start in late August." I gave it one more half-hearted try. “How ’bout late September?” Like a Pit Bull on a kitten, the sergeant went for the kill. “Okay Pete, it’s time to get serious here.” The smile vanished and his voice was somber. “If you’re going to do this, we need to get it done today! I’ll give you some time, but I’m busy son, so make a decision soon.” After this declaration, Sergeant Wilkins returned to his desk. John was busy with Sergeant Johnson, signing papers and asking questions. Occasionally John would turn around and give me a wink or wiggle his tongue at me like a fool. I didn’t care anymore about John’s attempts to aggravate me. It was decision time and my options were equally nauseating. I could say, “No thanks,” shake everybody’s hand, and walk out the door with the knowledge that I would be drafted in August—or I could join the Army, pick a training program I thought would keep me out of Vietnam, and be free for most of the summer. Two mind-numbing choices. I sat there sweating with my legs stuck to the cheap plastic chair; I was deep in thought for what seemed like an hour but was only about fifteen minutes. Nobody spoke to me. They all knew what I would do. These two “hucksters” had been through this drill hundreds of times before. They had the best possible sales tool at their disposal—fear of death! It is what ultimately drove me toward enlistment. I was a thoroughly beaten man-child, ready to make the biggest decision of my young life. I was going to join the United States Army in 1968 at the height of the Vietnam War. This was, by far, the absolute worst day of my short existence on the planet. I was nauseous and depressed at the same time. Hard as I tried, I could find no solace in thoughts of family, friends or visions of better days. Inner strength and character could not be mustered that day. I would reluctantly opt for what I perceived to be the safe route and join the United States Army for three years. I stood, creating a disgusting sound as I separated my sweaty legs from the moist chair. Walking to Sergeant Wilkins’ desk, I was like a wounded lamb. “Okay,” I sighed, “let me see the choices I have for the different schools.” John clapped noisily and whistled. Sergeant Wilkins smiled and shook my wet, limp hand. Sergeant Johnson looked up, nodded his head, and proudly proclaimed, “Pete, you made the correct decision. Welcome to the United States Army!” With that, Johnson gave me my first, proper right-handed salute. I struggled to keep down my breakfast of French toast and chocolate milk. The morning was a blur in my mind as we drove home. Although John was thrilled that I had joined the Army, he knew I was pissed off at him. John had pressed hard for me to join on the “buddy plan,” but I needed more than a week to mentally prepare myself for this ordeal. The hardest part of the day would be returning home to inform my parents and friends of my new occupation. In seventy-eight days, I would enter a world I knew nothing about. From that day forward, life as I knew it would cease to exist. ------------ About the author: Pete Whalon's humorous Vietnam memoir, "The Saigon Zoo; Vietnam's Other War; Sex, Drugs, Rock 'n Roll" should be on the market by June 1. Check out his web site: www.SaigonZoo.com or email: kinoman7@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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