Turning twenty-one is a rite of passage deserving of a traditionally festive atmosphere with perhaps a well-intentioned cake, beer, drinks and an abundance of the closest friends to celebrate the coming of age. My rite of passage into the coming of age did not take the traditional route. It was a Tuesday. There were seven enlisted men in our section, and each of us had an assigned day for staff duty. Mine happened to be Tuesday. I worked a normal twelve hour shift that day and spent the night on staff duty.
Ron Green was from California, but unlike some Californians with their arrogant and self-righteous attitude, Ron was a truly rational person, a solid friend and a drinking buddy. Ron worked as a draftsman with our Signal Section. We shared many beers both at the Trail’s End Club and in many of the Saigon establishments. Ron looked for me at my hooch then learned I was on duty, so he came over for a visit.
“So what’s with the long face, Tony?” Ron asked.
It's my birthday, dammit, and here I am stuck on staff duty!” I replied. “My twenty-first birthday, and I’m on duty."
"I know that captain who’s on duty with you,” Ron said. “He’s pretty cool. He already did his Army time and was teaching high school when he was forced back to active duty. He really doesn’t give a shit about anything. I’ll bet he will let you take a few hours off if you want. I can explain it’s your birthday."
Ron and I both approached the captain who had his feet propped up on a desk and was reading from a stack of old hometown newspapers. “Look, here’s the deal, captain,” I said. “It’s my twenty-first birthday, and I’m stuck here on duty. I need to go next door to the Trail’s End and have a beer or two for my birthday.”
The captain didn’t even look up. “Yeah, go ahead. Just don’t go and get sloppy drunk. We have to stay alert. Don’t take too long.”
Ron insisted on buying my beers that night. I let him. He would order a beer for every beer we finished. I was hungry and bought pickled sausages for both Ron and me. It was the only food available at the club. I must have had three or four beers when I thanked Ron and started to walk back to my staff duty.
“Wait, you still have to finish your drink,” Ron said. In front of us were two bourbon and coke drinks. We toasted. Ron sipped on his while I practically gulped mine down. I just wanted to get back to my staff duty. Again, I thanked Ron and walked back to my staff duty.
The captain had put two desks together for his bed and was fast asleep with his feet dangling off the end. I often wondered about the audacity of whoever named the Trail’s End Club. The name suggests the notion that this might just very well be the end of the trail for the many of us entering the facility. The beer and bourbon put me into a deep sleep. I woke up when my alarm clock went off. I took an hour off to clean up, eat breakfast and return to work. I was now twenty-one and could legally drink anywhere stateside; however, turning twenty-one in a combat zone tends to dampen the joy of reaching one of life’s most significant moments.
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