Everyone in the 8th Radio Research Field Station drank except for Mathew. He refused to even sample a beer. Drinking in combat is an earned and necessary privilege, and Matt had earned that privilege. Matt refused to drink. We were sitting around atop our bunker one evening with a couple of cases of beer. One of the older guys offered Matt a beer. He again refused. That was bad manners. "I've got my Coke here. Thanks, anyway," said Matt.
"Damn, is that the only goddamn thing you ever drink, Mat?" asked Vincent.
"That's pretty much about it," said Matt.
"Hey, how about grape juice?" asked Vincent. "I've got a whole shitload of grape juice cans I got from the messhall. Nobody drinks that shit, so they gave them to me. Here, let me go get you some to see if you like it."
"Wow, that tastes different," said Matt as he sampled Vincent's grape juice. "Did you put anything in it?"
"Look, modderfokker, if you don't like the damn thing, just tell me, but don't go and accuse me of putting any shit in your drink."
Actually, Vincent had added Southern Comfort to Matt's drink and would increase the amount each time he refilled the cup. Someone made a toast "Here's to Ho Chi Minh, the biggest, baddest shit for brains!" As was customary, everyone including Matt drank to Uncle Ho. Another in the group made another outrageous toast. Again, everyone took another drink. This went on for several revolutions.
"Well, I'm dry," announced Matt. "I'll go get me another Coke."
Vincent yelled out, "Wait a minute, modderfokker, you said you like my grape juice and nobody else drinks that shit! Gimme that cup. I'll get you some more." Vincent was to make two or three more trips to refill Matt's cup during the night, and Matt was quite a bit more appreciative of his grape juice each time he got a refill. By the time we finished off the beer and quit for the night, Matt was slurring his words and had become an extremely talkative and happy person, which was very much out of character for him. Matt was telling us all of his devoted love for his wife, the names for the kids he would have upon returning back to the world, and how this separation from his wife was increasing his love for her, even more, every day he spent away from her. Matt didn't want to quit and asked Vincent for more grape juice.
"Modderfokker, you done finished all my grape juice. I don't have anymore!"
Vincent and the rest of the group walked back to their trailers while I dragged Matt back to our trailer. It was unAmerican to be a non-drinker in Vietnam, and GI's can be pretty harsh on non-drinkers. Matt was profoundly drunk and just didn't want to go to bed. He grabbed a five-gallon can the house maid used to wash our clothes and sat on it at the end of my bunk talking about his life, his wife and his hatred for the US Army and for the Army Security Agency. According to Mat, the Army had destroyed an exhilarating life of privilege. Even though his parents were wickedly rich, they could not keep Matt from military service. I asked Matt why he joined the Army if he hated it so much.
"I didn't want to be drafted and wind up in Vietnam," said Matt. "My recruiter told me if I could be accepted into the Army Security Agency, I would not go to Vietnam because there are no Army Security Agency units in Vietnam. I fell for his lie, applied for and was accepted into the Agency, and now bigger than shit, here I am in Vietnam!"
In reality, the recruiter was technically correct. There were never any Army Security Agency units in Vietnam because Agency units were redesignated as Radio Research units prior to those units leaving for Vietnam. The reasoning behind this is that Army Security Agency units collected over-the-air intelligence data and would be a prime target for the enemy. 'Radio Research' units appeared harmless and blended in with regular military units. It was only after their reassignment back to the world that their Army Security Agency designations were restored.
I fell asleep while Matt was still going full throttle, and I have no idea when Matt finally stopped talking and went to sleep. Morning came. I got up, dry shaved, brushed my teeth and kicked Matt's bed cot a few times to take him to breakfast. Matt was sleeping fully clothed with boots on. I shook his shoulder, woke him up and suggested we go eat breakfast.
"Man, I don't feel so good. What happened last night?" Matt asked. I asked him if he remembered drinking spiked grape juice.
"I remember drinking the grape juice. What happened after that?" Matt asked.
I left for the messhall while Matt went back to sleep. I sat with Vincent and the rest of the crew. They all wanted to know about Matt. I assured them Matt was wasted and I couldn't even attempt to get him up. Vincent was furious. "Forget about that nasty grape juice, but tell that dumbass he got to replace my bottle of Southern Comfort! That shit don't grow on trees!"
I was reassigned to the 101st Airborne Division a couple of days later. Matt was reassigned to my 101st Airborne a week later. Matt never replaced Vincent's bottle of Southern Comfort. The gallon cans of grape juice were readily available from our messhall since no one in his right mind would drink it. Matt had developed a taste for grape juice. When Southern Comfort was not available at our PX, Matt learned to adapt and started mixing his grape with Vodka. In combat, we all learn to adapt and improvise.
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