Letter from Lena (excerpt): I walked down the dirt path to Hooch 12 in the slowly receding heat of the day.  Inside the hooch it was slightly cooler but not by much.  The dark interior reminded me of the opium dens in Saigon, quiet, smoky, a soft cough here and there, the smell of dope in the air.  Henderson and Chicken Man were dead asleep on their cots just inside the hooch door.  The bunks of Justice, Gibson, and Gomez were empty.  Each of the men had built up a protective barrier around his cot, using empty ammunition crates, cardboard beer cases, odd-sized plywood pieces scrounged from the trash pile, anything that could be used to give a man some precious space he could call his own.

My closest friend Schaefer was seated on the floor, head thrown back on the bunk next to mine, drifting on a heroin dream.  Drool rolled freely from his open mouth down his chin onto his green undershirt.  Schaefer had used junk in his home town of Detroit before his enlistment.  The nearly pure heroin he quickly found in Vietnam was not like anything he had experienced before.  Schaefer told me once while he was nodding in and out that he was never leaving Vietnam.  He was home. Schaefer kept his promise.  Six months later, when his tour was up and it was time to board the Freedom Bird back to Detroit, he simply disappeared.  Walked away into the hustle of central Da Nang and vanished.

Collins and Blackjack sat on a far cot facing the door sharing a Thai stick, passing it back and forth without effort.  Mechanical, a well-rehearsed routine, economy of effort.  Take a long draw, hold it, pass the stick, exhale, repeat.  The two men were bare chested in the heat, wearing only green boxer shorts and jungle boots.  Blackjack had a necklace of oversized shark’s teeth around his neck.  His sweaty skin glistened like oiled ebony.

“Hey, R.C., what’s up man?  Looks like you didn’t get killed or nothin’. Want a hit?”, asked Blackjack, using the voice all stoners use when holding it in, reluctant to give up the hit.

“Yeah, man, but just ti ti.  I gotta get my shit together.  I gotta go see a man about a girl,” I answered as I accepted the joint from Collins, a skinny pimpled blonde tank mechanic from Tennessee.

“No shit?  That’s cool.  Can you get me one while you’re goin’ to all that trouble?”

“Not that kind of girl, Jack.  This lady might be the real deal.  I gotta go ask her daddy if it’s cool to take her out.”

The next morning came quickly.  My sleep had been deep and dreamless.  This morning was a Saturday, there would be no Vietnamese on the base, the camp was quieter than usual.  Soldiers went automatically about the morning ritual when in camp, cold shower and a shave, a stop at the plywood latrine box, a trip to the mess tent.  Breakfast in camp was always the same.  Runny scrambled egg substitute, something that looked vaguely like bacon or ham, coffee.  Maybe a bowl of oatmeal if you wanted a rock to sit in your stomach all day.  I passed on the oatmeal and returned to Hooch 12 to get ready for my meeting with Mr. Huynh Dat.

My best set of fatigues were hanging on a nail on the wall next to my cot, neatly pressed and spray starched by Gung.  Still green, unfaded from the unrelenting Vietnam sun, I saved this uniform for special occasions, like the infrequent company formations for the benefit of some visiting dignitary.  I pulled on the fatigue pants, blousing them neatly above my glossy black shined boots, also compliments of Gung.  I thought of Gung as I dressed, remembering her anger from our last conversation.  I hoped that when I saw her next her disappointment over my pursuit of Huong would be gone.

My green laundry bag was tied to the foot of my bed.  I shook all the dirty clothes, the socks, underwear, fatigues onto my bed, reached into my footlocker and dug out an unopened bottle of Martell Brandy.  The brandy, now wrapped safely in my laundry bag, would be the gift I would bring to Mr. Huynh Dat.

The half mile walk to the main camp gate took me up the hill through the middle of camp.  Past the mess tent, the showers, the latrine.  Privates new in country or out of favor with their Sergeant were busy pulling the cut-down 55 gallon drums out from under the latrine.  After adding diesel fuel to the filthy mess inside, they would light it and watch it burn for the next couple hours before replacing the drums in the latrine box.  The always present smell of burning excrement is one any Vietnam Vet can recall in an instant.  Once down the hill I was walking the red dirt road past the fence line bunkers, duty soldiers lying on sandbags, some dozing, some writing letters, some staring into the distance, others in quiet conversation.  The slight scent of burning dope wafted in the breeze like at an outdoor rock festival.

As I walked, I was greeted by men I knew, “Hey R.C., how much time you got?  Ten more days and I’m gonna break 100!”  Each and every one of us knew to the day how long we had to stay in Vietnam.  The 365 day tour policy in Vietnam created a surreal outlook on life.  Guys didn’t know or care about whether we were winning or losing, only about how many more days he had to endure. Every conversation included this vital statistic.  By the time I got to the gate my carefully shined boots were red with dust.

The main gate separated the orderly American military camp from the swirling chaos of Da Nang.  Inside, men moved about with quiet purpose while outside the gate prostitutes, beggars, hustlers, dealers, soda-sellers, and cowboys on smoking motorbikes churned in a maelstrom of color, noise and red dust.

I looked over the scene in the guard shack and was relieved to see that my hooch mate Gibs was on duty with another couple of guys I didn’t recognize.  He was wearing starched fatigues, a .45 automatic on his gunbelt, and a white SP (special police) helmet, his afro carefully compressed and hidden with the use of a woman’s stocking.  Gibs on duty was going to make my leaving camp an easy matter.  Normally I would be required to show a pass to leave the compound or wait until a vehicle appeared driven by someone I knew.  Since I didn’t have the necessary pass, Gibs was my ticket.  As I walked up he said, “Hey, my brother!”, and started in on the “dap” that he had taught me, an elaborate fist and open palm slap handshake that was the common greeting between closely bonded soldiers in Vietnam.

“Hey man, where you headed all dressed up and everythang?” Gibson spoke in a manner common to many enlisted blacks all over Vietnam, kind of a southern, hip jazz kind of riff that I’m pretty sure didn’t exist in his home town of Oxnard, California.