We Got Great Seats for the War.

Dateline: Long Binh, Republic of Vietnam, 1970----

“We appear to have a couple comedians.”
The First Sergeant had called a platoon formation at 0600 hrs.

Sgt. Nidifer was a six foot six rail thin son of Appalachia, who had used an Army career to escape the coal mines of West Virginia. He once said, “If I'd a stayed in the mines, I'd a spent 8 hours a day breathin' coal dust in a hot wet place where I couldn't stand up straight.”

He was striding back and forth in the Vietnam dawn in front of the platoon of draftees, and waving a single sheet of paper torn from a small shirt-pocket spiral notebook. “Will,” looking closely at the paper, “Scott and Bill please step forward.”

No stepping took place. No forward.

Right here, let's flash back about 6 hours to near midnight.

WHUMP! WHUMP! WHANG!

Shouts through the hooch, “Incoming. Incoming.” All the GIs were supposed to head to the safety bunkers beside the hooch. Then, as the move started, the platoon sergeant ran through with, “Grab your gear. We got red flares.” Red flares meant a ground attack at the “Wire”--the perimeter of the base. Each company had a reaction force to reinforce the guards in its assigned bunker at the wire if an attack was signaled.

Men just coming off duty, and a few others, were excused from reaction force, and were supposed to evacuate the hooch and shelter in the blast bunkers just outside. That stunk, literally. The bunkers were ankle deep in stagnant water, steaming hot, stuffy, and full of mosquitoes.

Two of the heroes, who had been enjoying a post-duty smoke of the Zig Zag paper, hand rolled variety, looked at each other and instantly had better plans than a night in a stifling bunker. So, as the reaction group stormed off, they slipped on tire-tread shower shoes, helmets, and flak vests, grabbed a six pack of Blatz beer and a couple of aluminum frame lawn chairs. Convinced by both training and cannabis that they were bullet proof, they climbed to the corrugated tin roof of the hooch, popped open warm beers, and settled down to watch the war. The perimeter was about three quarters of a mile off, and the roof gave a perfect view of the tracer rounds, claymores, grenades, parachute flares, and other tools of war lighting up the night. When the helicopters showed up and began spewing tracers from the dark sky, things got even more interesting. There they were, dressed only in Olive Drab boxer shorts, flak vests, helmets, and BF Goodrich sandals, and armed only with cheap beer, enjoying a tropical evening of entertainment.

About the time these two had pretty much settled the betting line for the war at The Viet Cong and 6, a gruff voice shouted “HEY!” Two hands grabbed the edge of the roof. A camo covered helmet began to appear. Just preceding the face under that helmet, our lawn chair shock troops notice a pair of captains bars on the front of the helmet.

The face of the officer was unfamiliar. He demanded, “What are you two doing up here?”

“Uh, watching the war.”
“I'm putting you on report for endangering government property.”

Hero one looked confused. Hero two, who's name was Bob, said, “He means us. We're the property.”

“Ohhhhh.”

Captain Rule Book pulled a spiral notebook and a pencil from the breast pocket of his shiny new fatigues. Obviously, he was new incountry. “What are your names?”

Bob looks at the captain with an absolute serious face, gulps, and says, “Fitzgerald. Scott.”

“How are you spelling that, Fitzgerald?”

Bob helped him out as he scribbled down the information. He then turned to the other war watcher. Not to be outdone, this trooper replied, “Faulkner. Bill.” And that name was duly entered in the notes on the evening.

“You two are on report. Get to the G.....D.....bunker.”

And so, we circle back to the morning formation, and the scrap of paper in the sergeant's fist.

“Gentlemen, the new captain of the motor pool toured our Area last night, and he was not impressed by the demeanor of this unit. That captain may be eye-literate, but this sergeant is not. He has told me to put the two from the roof on sand bag filling duty until further notice. So, the so-called Scott and Bill will step forward. Now.”

No stepping. No forwarding. Army rule one is: Admit nothing.

With no movement, Sgt. Nidifer said, “That's what I thought. Damn comedians.” Crushing the note in his fist, he growled, “Dismissed.”

As the group walked off to breakfast, the sergeant passed Bob, and out of the side of his mouth said, “Have a nice day......Scott.”

The other roof-perching veteran has never been identified.