The consolidated dining facility at Tan Son Nhut’s Tent City B was a brand new and never-completed oversized building of cement blocks hastily assembled and void of any decoration, paint or luxury items such as salt and pepper shakers, napkins or acceptable service. Getting through the chow line was a struggle, and the meals were traditionally unacceptable. It was the kind of place you just wanted to get in, wolf your meal down and quickly exit to avoid the noise of a couple of hundred noisy soldiers added to the din of pots and pans reverberating off the cement walls.
The large cement tiled floor with wider than normal grout was permanently wet creating an unhealthy and musty odor. It was a totally unpleasant experience, but it was the only game in town.
It was a demandingly hectic day for me. I had staff duty the night before, had gotten no more than an hour or two of sleep, and it was a miserably hot and humid day. I had classified trash burn detail that evening, a duty that required me to stand in line with other twenty or thirty clerks burning classified file trash at the community’s only secure burn facility. Depending on the volume of classified trash burned, it would take me some two or three hours to proceed from the end of the burn line to the exit gate. And it was miserably hot feeding the classified trash into the burning drum while manually rotating the drum to insure every single sheet of classified trash was burned completely. Once all classified trash was fully burned into ash, I had to empty out the burn drum and have the burn monitor sign a certificate testifying that all classified trash was burned completely down to ash.
I was hungry, and I just knew I would be spending a miserable two or three hours at the burn pit, so I strolled on down to the mess hall earlier than I would have normally. I do not recall what was served that day, but I am quite certain it was something unkind lacking spices, texture and taste. Mashed potatoes and dark gravy were always in abundance and covered whatever mystery meat was being served. The first half of the customers always got rationed portions. The closer to the end of the serving hour, the bigger the portions served. We all got wise to this and would normally show up for meals near closing time – but not today.
Since I had burn detail that evening, I was one of the first in line for supper. After a lengthy struggle getting to the serving line, I was pleasantly surprised to find ice cream being served. I thanked my God as I proceeded on down the chow line. A cook with a large metal spoon served your choice of either vanilla or chocolate ice cream on whichever area of the tray was least covered up with the potatoes and gravy which would always spill over covering everything from the canned green beans to hot dogs. I rearranged my tray and made room for my large serving of ice cream to keep it from contaminating my other servings.
Picking an empty table, I set my tray down and left to get unsweetened ice tea (ice not available). Upon getting back to my table, my ice cream was missing. My first thought was that I was at the wrong table, then total disbelief and a furious anger. I looked around and another guy sitting at a neighboring table pointed to a guy behind me. The bad wolf in me nudged me on. I asked the man of color and sitting with three others if he had taken my ice cream. “Man, why you go and say shit like that for?” he said. “Are you fucking crazy or just stupid? Get the fuck away from me!”
A cook who was placing rolls of toilet paper on each table to use as napkins witnessed the exchange. I grabbed my thief’s collar and pulled him back. He got up and seemed to be much taller than me, but I was furious. The cook handing out the toilet paper rolls grabbed my arm and said “Man, it’s not worth it. I’ll get you some more ice cream.”
But I was no longer in the mood for ice cream. As I was leaving I took my tray and dumped my whole tray on my thief's ice cream and meal. He got up and cursed me furiously but never made a move towards me. I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked out the door.
I went back to my classified cage to pick up the classified trash and proceeded on down to the burn barrel hauling the two large red mailbags reserved for this. By the time I got to the burn area, it was already dark with some fifteen folks already in line. It was drizzling, and there was an inadequate metal roof over the burn barrel that only partially covered the waiting area. A bare light bulb hung from one of the support poles, and the Private monitoring the classified burn barrel was intensely focused on a comic book he was reading by the dim light distracted only by the flare-ups of the burning classified material. I was almost to the burn barrel when a weak, old and deeply wrinkled Major well past his prime and probably a holdover from either World War II or the Korean War was passing by and noticed the burn-monitor Private reading his comic book by the dim light. The Major happened to be the base commander for Tent City B.
“Soldier, what the hell are you doing reading a goddamn comic book?” the Major weakly yelled.
It was evident the major wanted to sound tough, but his weak frail voice betrayed him. He was probably using dentures since I could see spit spraying out his mouth as he yelled. The Private, a draftee who seemed to have no patience for officers, calmly stuck his comic book in his back pocket and took on a look of defiance with his arms crossed and rocking back and forth as if ready to explode on the Major.
“You’re supposed to monitor the burn barrel, Private! You have to verify every piece of classified material is burned completely before you sign off on the burn certificates! You can’t tell me you’re doing all that and still have time to read that goddamn comic book! Now take that damn comic book and throw it in the burn barrel before I have you up on charges for dereliction of duty!”
“No way, Major! I bought my comic book with my own money. Do what you want, but I won’t burn it unless you pay me for it,” responded the Private.
The weak, frail Major was smart enough to know when to quit.
“Soldier, I want to see you in my office first thing in the morning!” The old Major left the area muttering something I could not decipher. The Private loudly muttered "Asshole!" loud enough for the old major to hear then went back to reading his comic book by the dim light.
I was exhausted and hungry but had already gotten over my ice cream loss by the time I got back to my hooch. My buddy Marquez from Corpus Christi had heard about my incident. He had gone to the PX and bought a box of crackers and a can of Vienna sausages for me. That was to be my supper that night.
A few days later when I had classified burn duty once more, I again encountered the Private monitoring the burn barrel. I asked him if butthead Major ever gave him any grief for the comic book incident.
“Naw, the asshole was just flexing his ignorance,” he said. “He probably forgot about it cause I didn’t even show up at his office. This is the shittiest duty on post, and the Major put me here as punishment for striking one of his lieutenants who was constantly on my ass. I was demoted to Private, had some money taken away from me and given this shitty duty. I just don’t give a shit anyway. What else they gonna do? Send me to Vietnam?”
The last time I saw the burn-monitor Private just before leaving Tent City B for my new assignment at Advisory Team 99, 25th Vietnamese Infantry Division, he was still faithfully focused on his comic books while executing his assigned duties as classified documents burn monitor. The weak older Major was nowhere near as if perhaps avoiding the burn-monitor Private. It was the Private’s domain.
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