It was some time in 1970 and another mind-numbing day with the 101st Airborne Division at Camp Eagle, Vietnam. I was contemplating how I was going to survive yet another tour in the Nam. Being in a combat zone was not something new or daunting to me. By the time I joined the 101st Airborne, I already had over two years of combat assignments in administrative, advisory, infantry and psychological assignments where several of my peers were killed or medically evacuated. The 101st Airborne assignment would turn out to be my next exciting chapter in my military life to that point in my career.
It was a miserably hot day when I walked into our shared dining facility and found Sp4 Gonzales serving some easily forgettable lunch. It was probably roast beef. We ate so much roast beef for lunch and dinner for so many months on end that many of us just gave up going to the dining facility and ate C-Rations instead. I asked Gonzales where he was from. He told me he was from El Paso and was assigned to my 101st Airborne, 265th Radio Research Company. I initially believed he was lying since we were not authorized any cooks in our 265th Radio Research Company. I asked him to share a beer after work and was surprised to find him in my company area just a couple of Hooches from me.
It turns out Gonzales had a cushy assignment as a cook at our Headquarters, 8th Radio Research Field Station in Phu Bai. He had it all - monthly USO shows, maid services, functional showers and real toilets in his trailer home. He was living the life when he got caught with a pocketful of joints. He faced demotion, a loss of a few months' pay and additional duty. He was given the option of "going to the front lines" and joining the 101st Airborne Division (my unit). Even though our unit did not have a dining facility, Gonzales was assigned to our 265th Radio Research Company with duty at the neighboring support company where we ate our meals while in garrison. Not wanting demotion to Private First Class and not desiring a loss of several months' pay with additional duty, Gonzales opted for assignment to our company. We got a case of beer and started drinking atop my bunker next to my Hooch. It was traditionally prudent to drink by a bunker in case of sudden rocket or mortar attacks. During these drinking sessions, we would have our equipment, flak vests, weapons and gas masks with us. We reminisced about being back home and talked of how we were there involuntarily and how we happened to wind up in the biggest, baddest division in the Nam.
That first meeting with Gonzales was pretty uneventful. We were atop our bunker well into that next morning when Gonzales mentioned he had to leave and get ready for work. He had to prepare the kitchen for breakfast that morning. He left. I went back to my Hooch, and took a nap. Some time that next evening Gonzales got off work and came by with a case of beer. Beer was $2 a case when soda was $2.25 a case, so it was easy to justify the drinking. I had been reading Godfather by Mario Puzo which was sent to us by the Red Cross. A few hours of drinking with a new Mexican friend was a break from boredom. We had nearly finished off the case when Gonzales asked if I wanted a joint. It would have been bad manners to refuse. I accepted but told him we'd both face dishonorable discharges if we got caught smoking a joint. The Army Security Agency was harshly tough on drugs. He suggested we go visit a friend of his who lived next to our unit.
Ramirez was a half Mexican and half Apache mechanic from Arizona. We found Apache and went to an empty bunker to smoke our joints. A few minutes later we heard another Mexican calling "Apache, estas aqui, buey?" Rodriguez was from California. He joined us after we sent him to get another case of beer. We kept drinking, smoking and cursing the Army for bringing us to this hellhole when Apache suggested "We have a good team here. We're all Mexicans, we all miss our families and we are all here against our will. We should be blood brothers. Gonzales, Rodriguez and I all agreed saying something like "Yeah, that's a good idea".
"It was agreed. We would become blood brothers by cutting our forefingers to share our blood, forging a bond to transcend words and time, to be united in loyalty and trust forever."
Apache grabbed the candle we were sharing and got out a rusty pocket knife. It was at this point I magically sobered up sufficiently to reject this. Apache suggested, "No man, it won't hurt cause I keep it sharp and we have enough beer already in us". I mentioned the possibility of infection. I was outvoted 3 to 1, so I made the next best case and suggested we find a clean razor blade. Since my Hooch was closer, we moved the party right outside my Hooch. I found a new razor blade and handed it to Apache. Without even wiping his index finger, Apache cut his forefinger. I could see the blood dripping by the dim light. I got my flashlight and pointed it to his forefinger. He asked "Who's first?" Rodriguez was first, so the cut was made. They held their forefingers together for a few seconds and Apache said something foreign to me then primed his forefinger to get more blood before making the next cut on Gonzales. As I pointed the flashlight at Gonzales' forefinger, Apache misjudged the depth and made a severely deeper cut to Gonzales' forefinger. Gonzales started bleeding profusely but was able to hold his forefinger to both Apache and Rodriguez to become blood brothers.
I was next to become the fourth blood brother; however, Gonzales was hurting and bleeding profusely needing immediate care. I took the first aid pack from my load-bearing equipment and wrapped the gauze on his forefinger. It was not more than a few seconds when the bandage was completely soaked with blood. Even Apache sobered up saying "Damn, hermano, I screwed up. I'm sorry, Man. I really fucked up. Pour some beer on it, man. It'll be okay." I poured beer on it but that didn't seem to do much to stop the bleeding.
"Hey, piss on it, Gonzales!" suggested Rodriguez. "Your piss will kill the germs. Your own piss is sterile, man." Gonzales chose not to piss on the cut. Rummaging through my first aid packs, I found some iodine in my first aid kit and poured it on Gonzales' forefinger then put on a fresh gauze bandage on it. At that point we were all in a panic to the point of suggesting we should take Gonzales to the field hospital. Gonzales rejected this saying he was on probation and had to go to work in just a couple of hours. We all just broke up the blood brother meet at this point without me becoming a blood brother. Since we were just outside my Hooch, I took the remaining beers with me and dozed off.
Come morning, I made it a point of going to the dining facility to check on Gonzales. He was on the serving line frying eggs. I noticed his forefinger wrapped in a white towel turned pinkish with his blood. I asked him how he was doing. He mentioned it had not stopped bleeding and was going to the field hospital after finishing his shift frying eggs.
I again looked up Gonzales that evening to ask him about his forefinger. He had gone to the field hospital. A doctor wanted to know how it happened, so being a good Mexican, he lied saying "Look, I'm a cook. I cut it in the kitchen with a sharp knife, okay?" The doctor asked why he did not seek treatment earlier. Gonzales responded "It was 0400 in the morning. You people were still sleeping. When you guys woke up I was already frying eggs. I came as soon as I could." Gonzales' cut could not be sutured because it was not a fresh cut. Instead, he was given antibiotics and told to keep his forefinger clean.
Gonzales was a draftee and left the Army probably a month or so after this incident. I regret not staying in touch with him, but wherever he is, Gonzales earned bragging rights on a battlefield brotherhood scar he can be quite proud of.
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