Joint Guard Duty

Two soldiers smoking pot while on guard duty in Vietnam

Joint Guard Duty

by R. A. Battin

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 The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.

 The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

 The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.

"Guess whut I's gots in my pocket, n' you can….."

Crawhorn didn't give a rat's ass what the man had in his pocket. What mattered to him was the four hours of guard duty in a stinking, hot, 8' X 8' wooden tower, some thirty feet above the concertina wire perimeter surrounding Lai Khe, his unit's base camp. Moreover, he had to spend it with this man named Jefferson, regardless of what he had in his pocket. He did not know Jefferson well. Although assigned to the same platoon, they had just met before their afternoon guard duty detail.

***

"Jefferson, meet Crawhorn," said the sergeant. "He's an FNG. Crawhorn meet Jefferson; he's been here a while. You two swinging dicks are on guard duty at tower seven on the perimeter. You know the location?" he asked, glaring at Jefferson.

Jefferson nodded.

"There's a radio in the tower. Make sure the guards on duty leave it. Here's a fresh battery if you need it. Call in every thirty minutes and report. Make sure you take water, C-rats, and whatever else you need. Any questions?"

Jefferson looked at Crawhorn and shook his head. Crawhorn returned the stare.

"Alright, then. See you back here at 1600 hours. Now, get the hell out of here."

***

Jefferson was twenty, broad and muscular, over six feet and two hundred pounds. Fast-talking and street smart, he grew up in some inner-city back in the world that Crawhorn didn't recognize. Raised by his grandmother in the projects, he dropped out of school at sixteen and joined a local gang. On his eighteenth birthday, his grandmother told him to sign up for the draft.

"It's the law, Thomas. Everybody's' gots to sign at eighteen".

He registered at the local Selective Service branch, received his draft card, and was classified 1A, fit for military service. A few months later, his draft notice arrived.

His grandmother was concerned and feared for him.

"This be your chance to make somethin' of yourself, Thomas. It's a lot better than workin' at the car wash and bein' in a gang. Do your best, follow orders, stay away from fights, and don't you forget your prayers".

Six months later, Thomas left for Vietnam.

Crawhorn was small in stature, lean, and scrawny. He had grown up dirt poor and backward on a sharecropper farm in rural Appalachian.

"Where you be stayin?" asked Jefferson.

"Whut?" asked Crawhorn.

"Yuh know, where you be from back in the world. Where you be stayin, man?"

"Kentucky. Harlan County, Pineville."

Jefferson didn't recognize the area, let alone the name of the town nearest the Crawhorn farm. Crawhorn was nineteen but looked younger, no more than twelve or thirteen. His youthful appearance derived from a genetic issue created by an incestuous relationship between his father and mother, first cousins on his father's side. A poor student, he dropped out of school in the eighth grade when offered work on a neighbor's tobacco farm. He had never ventured far from his locale before receiving his draft notice. The bus ride to the Lexington induction center was the first or second time in his life that he recalled leaving Harlan County.

Adapting to Army life had been trying for him, especially the basic training. The drill instructors constantly harassed and shouted at him, calling him "Stupid," "Idiot," "Numbnuts." or "Shit for Brains." However, he excelled at weapons training, scoring "Excellent" at the rifle range, thanks to his backwoods hunting skills and techniques.

After basic training, both men attended infantry training at Fort Polk, Louisiana, receiving the military designation 11B, Infantryman.

Jefferson had been in Vietnam for almost seven months. He had combat experience, having survived several firefights, numerous night ambushes, and one full-scale NVA ground attack near the Cambodian border, where he was wounded. It was a mere flesh wound, a small piece of shrapnel from a grenade embedded in his rib cage. He wished it had been a "million-dollar" wound, one that would have got him a "dust off" to a field hospital and then home, but not permanently disabled. Treated at the Lai Khe MASH unit, he returned to his platoon three days later. Although he was unsure whether the shrapnel resulted from an enemy grenade or one from his unit, he was awarded the Purple Heart.

His grandmother received news of his injury and spread the word quickly through the neighborhood and the local church.

"My boy, Thomas, he be a hero, he awarded the Purple Heart medal."

Crawhorn had less than ten days in the country. He had completed the First Infantry Division's required Combat Indoctrination Training School at Lai Khe only days ago. It was just in time to join his unit, standing down at Lai Khe for rest and relaxation after spending the last three weeks in the field.

***

"You know what weed is man; you ever smoke any weed?" asked Jefferson.

"Na," said Crawhorn, "ain't never smoked any."

"Well, I gots me some premium, dinky dau shit here. Thet's whut I gots in my pockit."

He removed a small aluminum 35mm film canister from the chest pocket of his jungle fatigue. Unscrewing the cap, he handed the open container to Crawhorn.

"Here, man, take a whiff."

"Stinks."

"Yea, but man, it'll make you feel so damn fine when you's smoke it. You'll get a high, bro. You ever been high? You smoke, don't ya?"

"Uh-huh, Winston's, when I can get 'em," said Crawhorn, taking a drink from his canteen and splashing his face with the lukewarm water.

Almost everyone back home smoked. He began smoking grapevines and horseweeds with his brothers and cousins when he was twelve. You don't hail from a tobacco state and not smoke, at least not in the Crawhorn family.

"Well, I'm fixin' to roll me a number, man. You gonna take a hit? It'll mellow your ass out for sure, brother. Make the time pass sooner on this here joint guard duty."

Crawhorn had heard about weed. Back home, it was the money people who smoked it. Well to do, draft-dodging, longhaired college boys cruising town in late model convertibles with pretty girls who taunted him in his granddad's old pick-up.

"Yea, I reckon I'll give it a go. Anything that'll make the time pass."

Jefferson removed rolling papers from his other pocket and began assembling a joint.

Crawhorn observed the activity with envy and curiosity as he studied the big man's mannerisms, fascinated by the ability and gentleness of his large hands and fingers shaping and working the paper and weed into a smoke. Jefferson ran his wet tongue along the paper, sealing its length like an envelope flap, and placed it between his lips. He flipped open his Zippo and spun the wheel. Firing the joint, Jefferson took a nice long hit, held it in his lungs for what Crawhorn thought was a long time, and then exhaled blue smoke. He gingerly passed the joint to Crawhorn.

"Here 'ya go, man. Take a hit and hold it in for a bit."

Crawhorn cradled the joint for a few seconds in his fingers. He studied the burning ember with an odd, bewildered look as if trying to determine if it was something living and breathing. He short-sniffed the curling fumes under his nose, closed his eyes, swallowed, and took a long drag, inhaling the hot, dry smoke. He felt a warm, burning sensation in his throat and lungs that abruptly caused his breath to jerk in his chest. When he exhaled, there was an explosive cough and hacking. He passed the joint back to Jefferson.

"You'll get used to it, man," said Jefferson, laughing raucously at Crawhorn's reaction to the smoke. He took the joint, offered another hit for himself, and lowered his large frame to the guard tower floor, leaning against the structure's inner wall. Resting comfortably now, he tilted his head back, took a deep breath, and slowly closed his eyes.

"You gots a girl back home, man?" he asked, offering the joint back to Crawhorn.

"Na'," replied Crawhorn, lowering himself to the floor directly across from Jefferson. He took another hit and returned the joint, this time without coughing.

"You ain't gots no girl? Bro, whut you talkin' 'bout?"

"I mean, I ain't got no girl...I.... I, uh....I....ain't had me one neither."

Crawhorn nervously shifted his position, reflecting his embarrassment and discomfort with his confession and the direction of his conversation with Jefferson.

Jefferson took another hit and passed the joint back.

"You shittin' me, right? You ain't never been with a girl? Never been laid? Man, I sees right now I needs to get your little white dick down to the ville (laughing, referencing Lai Khe village.) They gots some fine young hoes down there (laughing). Get your ass laid by a mama-san for sure (laughing). What the fuck is up with you, man? You ain't one of them queer cocksuckers, are you?"

"I ain't queer!"

Crawhorn took another hit and handed the joint back to Jefferson.

"Man, I've had me so many bitches I lost track of 'em. Soul sisters, white mamas, gook hoes. They all loved me. An' I damn sure loved dem. Man, I jest can't get over your virgin ass bein' a cherry," laughed Jefferson.

Sweating profusely in the stifling heat beneath the guard tower's metal roof, Jefferson stood and unbuttoned his poplin fatigue jacket revealing an olive drab T-shirt silkscreened with the likeness of Ho Chi Minh.

Crawhorn was nauseous and disoriented, his eyes glazed and dilated. He felt a pounding sensation in his lower back and his heart was racing. Overwhelmed with anxiety and fear resulting in an intensifying, hallucinatory, psychotic rage, he took a deep breath and grabbed his M16. Thumbing the selector lever from safe to fully automatic, he pointed the barrel at Ho Chi, and pulled the trigger.