Peaches: One more war story

 

Note: Happy Veterans Day to you all, especially to families of veterans who have a special challenge in worrying about loved ones away from home and whose support is so dearly needed and appreciated.  For them—as it is with many of us—every day is Veteran’s Day.

 Willie was a weasel.

    He was one of five soldiers in my small unit. We operated a 105-mm artillery Howitzer.  Imagine a 50-pound bullet about a foot-and-a-half long That’s what the gun could shoot. It could go a maximum of seven miles or shorter depending on the situation. The shells were high-explosive, white phosphorus (liquid fire), bee hive (filled with lethal fish hooks that were meant to kill in a large circle), and others. All the rounds came in wooden boxes, two to a box, for which we found many uses.

    There was me, Tony, Sammy, Joe, and the Weasel. Tony was laid back, never said much. Joe was always talking about home and drove us crazy. Sammy was constantly in search of more food. He could eat more than any of us. I was the handsome one. (This is my story.) Then there was the Weasel.

    This was 1969, in Vietnam. We were one of six guns that made up an artillery battery. We would be dropped into a jungle clearing, where we’d set up the Howitzers and get to work killing Commies and supporting infantry units operating beyond the barbed wire that surrounded us.  That was, after all, the point.

   The left-over boxes from artillery shells could serve as protection by filling them with dirt and building a sandbag and box parapet. We made them into benches, shelves, boxes for mementoes or they could be made into a cooler. This tale concerns the cooler.

   You could make a cooler by nailing the Styrofoam packaging to the inside of busted up ammo boxes. If you were lucky, you could get big blocks of ice from nearby villages.

The ice blocks always came with rice or wheat bits in them. I don’t know why and frankly I don’t care.

   When we received boxed rations, the thing I liked most was canned peaches. All of us did. I liked them so much, I always put them in the cooler to get them nice and cold before I partook. Problem was that the peaches were not in everyone’s food packets so if you got a can of peaches it was a treasure. One day my peaches disappeared. And there was only one suspect.

    Keep in mind that all these guys including me had weapons, knives, access to grenades and other lethal weapons including high-powered machine guns. If you ticked off someone in your unit, a dispute could always be settled by beating one another to a pulp. Or, you’d keep in mind that there were lethal weapons around and acted accordingly. All these actions could put you in LBJ, or as it was called, Long Bihn Jail, followed, no doubt, by Leavenworth.

    Here’s the thing: Willie was built like a brick. He was shorter than the rest of us but he had square shoulders and a thick muscular chest covered in black hair. He rarely put a shirt on and was always lurking.  His chest and face always seemed to have the residue of food on them, as though he had just finished somebody’s meal and had the crumbs to prove it.

    Willie’s job was to make sure a round went into the gun the second the last one was fired. In essence, he kept the gun loaded. In this he was unbelievably quick, keeping up with all of us so the rounds could be delivered efficiently and lethally. Hundreds of rounds might go out in a day, and all of them were needed now, not later. So the missions were critical.

    We were busy, so it was hard to keep an eye on each other, although each of us had the other’s back, even the Weasel’s. In fact, the faith you put in the other guys was undisputed. When a fire mission was announced, we were on the gun in an instant, and got a shot off immediately to center the entire battery. Our role was called center-piece, which meant our aim was used to adjust the firing and once adjusted the whole battery was ordered to shoot.

     Some missions went on for hours. Some occurred in the hot sun, during a monsoon rain, or deep into the night where the hot day left behind a shivering cold.  Of course, we were shot at by the enemy and sometimes by our own guys. Mistakes happened. Our own mortar rounds from our own guys might stall in the air over our battery and then drop and explode wherever they landed.  Artillery rounds could remain stuck in the Howitzer until removed unexploded. These were lethal times. So peaches in calm moments took on a special importance. They provided a healthy break from insanity.

     I went to the cooler after a mission—prepared to savor the ripe sweetness of peaches. I would trade any medal you offered for that can. This was a can that didn’t hold much, mind you, but enough. A few tasty bites. Life had, at that moment, been reduced to one need…peaches, in thick sweet sauce, cool and delicious. Save your stinking promotions; give me peaches.

    The cooler was not full. Hardly. A few bottles of this and that, a few cans of really crappy food from home only Sammy would eat. But no peaches.

    To say I went crazy is probably an over simplification. I knew in my heart, Willie the Weasel had struck and that was that. I looked around and there he was sitting on a box smiling. He was always smiling, but smiling like a funeral director smiles, in the knowledge that one day you’re going to be paying for one of his caskets.

    Willie had that ‘I just enjoyed a can of peaches smile,’ when I went up to confront him.

     Before I said some bad language, Willie the Weasel said: “Not me, I didn’t take anything.”  This was before I even asked. I began a bad language tirade and Willie just sat there as though he’d been through many a scene like it before, which was true—being a weasel. Nothing really fazed this guy, which made him a good soldier. He just did the work and lurked around. When he was nearby, pens disappeared, books, spare change, whatever was out and unlocked.

    I suspect the enemy had weasels too. But I’d take our weasels over theirs any day. Weasels invade civilian life as well as military life. You’ve probably got weasels working in your office or at the factory or somewhere within your family. Look at all the weasels that just ran for political office. Some of them were even elected.

     But when the chips are down even weasels, the American soldier versions anyway, rise to the occasion. So for the first time since it occurred, I want to publicly forgive Willie the Weasel for stealing my peaches. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you or leave you tied up in the jungle some night to deal with whatever might be slithering out there, man or beast.

    Consider this ordeal over with. You can stop looking over your shoulder despite my threat to follow you to Florida and take care of you properly. I’ve never been to Florida and don’t have any urge to go. There are plenty of peaches in Florida, you weasel, so have at it. You’re history to me. And by the way. Thank you for your service.