Zeigler wanted to get out of the Army badly. He went on sick call one cold morning and asked to see a psychiatrist. He presented a sad case to the psychiatrist detailing how his parents were already at an advanced age unable to take care of themselves and his siblings were already married and unable to care for the parents. Zeigler asked for a hardship discharge. A few months later and towards the end of our class, he learned his request for hardship discharge was denied. Zeigler was heartbroken especially upon learning that many in our class were getting orders for Vietnam. “I can’t go there,” Zeigler sobbed. “My parents will die with no one there to care of them. ” Nunez was a classmate from East Los Angeles, and there were few places Nunez didn’t go without his guitar. “The hell with this shit!” Nunez yelled out at Zeigler. “I’m going to Vietnam, too. So we all go to Vietnam, and we all fucking die. No big gig. Come on. Let's just fucking party!" It was a Friday afternoon. Nunez got his guitar and started playing when a guy from another class living in upstairs barracks brought down his guitar and started playing. Zeigler turned over the barrack's forty-gallon trash can and made it his main drum. He inverted two other smaller trash cans and also used them as drums then went to his locker and pulled out his drumsticks. Sitting on yet another inverted trash can, he began playing his “drum” set quite professionally while the two guitars played and another Mexican began singing “G – L – O – R – I – A, Gloooooo – reee – ah . . . .” A couple of guys began taking up a collection and went down to the shoppette nearby and brought back a couple of cases of cheap beer. Money was tight. The majority of us were still Privates earning a measly $78 monthly.
The sounds generated were loud enough to draw others into our barracks. Guys we never even knew joined in, another collection was taken up and pizzas were ordered. The louder they played, the more people we gathered, the more beer and pizzas showed up and the more Zeigler began coming out of his shell and started enjoying himself for the first time I could remember. My bunk was about four bunks away from the playing area, but when beer and sleep overtook me, I stumbled to my bunk and fell asleep. The loud music, card and dice games and loud noises did not interrupt my sleep. I woke up that next morning still fully clothed. I was pretty much wasted and just slept in most of the day. It was not until Sunday morning that I finally made it to the mess hall for a full breakfast.
Something I never understood happened that weekend. Come Monday morning, Zeigler was a changed man. He seemed to have overcome the fear of Vietnam and was ready to accept what fate awaited him. I and some of my classmates got our orders for Vietnam that same week, so we had sufficient reason to party hard for that next weekend. The crowd we drew was not nearly half the size of the previous weekend, and it was a more somber party. Early that next week, Zeigler, too, was handed orders for Vietnam. He was sad but not openly showing it. “Hell, even more reason to party, guys!” Zeigler shouted. “Let’s go get fucking drunk again this weekend. Hell, we might not have too many more opportunities!”
Whenever anyone in our class shipped out, most of the other classmates were there to see him off. Moreno, Rodriguez and I were in one of the first groups. Zeigler was there to see us off. We met up again at Camp Alpha in Vietnam a day before Moreno and I shipped out to Tan Son Nhut. Zeigler had taken up smoking. As hard as he tried to be pleasant and nonchalant about being in Vietnam, there was a very visible trace of apprehension and fear. That’s the last time I saw Zeigler, and I’ve always wondered if he made it out of Vietnam and back home to see his parents still alive.
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