'Jesus.'
'You won't get it, though. They're not giving out big medals anymore.'
'Well, I really don't care.'
'They'll probably buck it down to a Star.'
'I have a Star.'
'No, a Silver.'
'Wow!'
'Hero. Too bad it don't count for shit back in the world. In the old days, you could have been a movie star.'
'I just want to make it back in one piece. I can pay to see movies. That's as close to movies as I want to get.'
'Well, then, I have good news for you, Fenn. You got new orders. Your transfer came through.'
Donny thought he misunderstood.
'What? I mean, there must be--What do you mean, transfer? I didn't ask for a transfer. I don't see what--' 'Here it is, Fenn. Your orders were cut three days ago.
You been dumped in 1-3-Charlie, and assigned to battalion S-3. That's us, here in Da Nang, we're the administrative battalion for what's left of Marine presence. My guess is, you'll be running a PT program here in Da Nang for a couple of months before you DEROS out on the big freedom bird. Your days in the bush are over. Congratulations, grunt. You made it, unless you get hit by a truck on the way to the slop chute.'
'No, see, I don't--' 'You go on over to battalion, check in with the duty NCO and he'll get you squared away, show you your new quarters. You're in luck. You won't believe this. We closed down our barracks and moved into some the Air Force vacated, 'cause they were closer to the airstrip. Air-conditioning, Fenn. Air-conditioning!'
Donny just looked at him, as if the comment made no sense.
'Fenn, this is a milk run. You got it made in the shade.
It's a number-one job. You'll be working for Gunny Bannister, a good man. Enjoy.'
'I don't want a transfer,' Donny said.
The sergeant looked up at him. He was a mild, patient man, sandy blond hair, professional-bureaucrat type of REMF, the sort of sandy-dry man who always makes the machine work cleanly.
He smiled dryly.
'Fenn,' he explained, 'the Marine Corps really doesn't care if you want a transfer or not. In its infinite military wisdom, it has decreed that you will teach a PT class to lard-ass rear-echelon motherfuckers like me until you go home. You won't even see any more Vietnamese.
You will sleep in an air-conditioned building, take a shower twice a day, wear your tropicals pressed, salute every shit bird officer that walks no matter how stupid, not work very hard, stay very drunk or high and have an excellent time. You'll take beaucoup three-day weekends at China Beach. Those are your orders. They are better orders than some poor grunt's stuck out on the DMZ or Hill 553, but they are your orders, nevertheless, and that is the name of that tune. Clear, Fenn?'
Donny took a deep breath.
'Where does this come from?'
'It comes straight from the top. Your CO and your NCOIC signed off on it.'
'No, who started it? Come on, I have to know.'
The sergeant looked at him.
'I have to know. I was Sierra-Bravo-Four. Sniper team. I don't want to lose that job. It's the best job there is.'
'Son, any job the Marine Corps gives you is the best job.'
'But you could find out? You could check. You could see where it comes from. I mean, it is unusual that a guy with bush time left suddenly gets rotated out of his firebase slot and stowed in some make-work pussy job, isn't it, Sergeant?'
The sergeant sighed deeply, then picked up the phone.
He schmoozed with whomever was on the other end of the line, waited a bit, schmoozed some more, and finally nodded, thanked his co-conspirator and hung up.
'Swagger, that's your NCO?'
'Yes.'
'Swagger choppered in here last week and went to see the CO. Not battalion but higher, the FMF PAC CO, the man with three stars on his collar. Your orders were cut the next day. He wants you out of there. Swagger don't want you humping the bush with him no more.'
Donny checked in with the PFC on duty at 1-3-Charlie, got a bunk and a locker in the old Air Force barracks, which were more like a college dormitory, and spent an hour getting stowed away. Looking out the window, he could not see a single palm tree: just an ocean of tarmac, buildings, offices. It could have been Henderson Hall, back in Arlington, or Cameron Station, the multi service PX out at Bailey's Crossroads. No yellow people could be seen: just Americans doing their jobs.
Then he went to storage to pick up his stowed 782 gear and boonie duds, and lugged the sea bag to supply to return it, but learned supply was already closed for the day, so he lugged the stuff back to his locker. He checked
