A collection of photo illustrated war and post war vignettes, short stories, war nightmares, war poetry and travel writing by a Vietnam combat medic. Site includes war related videos and documents. There is some harsh language.
The Sergeant Major, Coke Girls and Kids — by Jack Parente
By September ‘69 Echo recon had seen plenty of combat and too many men were crazy. Our lieutenant decided no more patrols, ambush, jungle, monsoon for these burnt out grunts. They would finish their tours as clean shaven, beer drinking, pot-smoking REMFs, in the rear with the gear. I was one of those lucky men. Mostly we did menial tasks. Make-work jobs that didn’t matter, but that definitely saved our lives.
Major General E.B. Roberts commanded the 1st Cavalry that year, but the Phouc Vinh headquarters compound was run by Command Sergeant Major Lawrence “Rabbit” Kennedy. CSM Kennedy wielded enormous power. Everything important went through him. A decorated WWII and Korea vet, he cared for the grunts fresh from the field. When he asked what I could do that didn’t involve firing a machine gun, knowing that my answer was critical, “I can do anything you tell me to do, Sir.”
He liked that. Almost everyone called him “Sir.” As the new manager of the Phouc Vinh Plantation Club I received an extra two-hundred dollars a month to keep the books straight for the club, and its dozen slot machines. This was right up my alley. I grew up in a mob-run small town and knew how to follow directions and keep my mouth shut. Kennedy valued this particular skill because running a nightclub in a combat zone required discretion of a certain type. Beer, cigarettes, Korean bands, these item were not hard to get. But junk food—chips, pretzels, pigs feet, mini-pizzas, booze – fast-moving, high-demand items often hard to obtain through standard procurement – required wheeling and dealing to keep the club well stocked. And Kennedy, adept at horse trading, had contacts everywhere. Whatever I thought we could sell at the bar, whatever the troops wanted, the sergeant major could, and would acquire it.
About once a week, my driver, Tommy, another jungle crazed ex-grunt, and I visited a series of multinational pick-up and drop-off points, swapping our surplus stock for items in demand. In one particular swap Tommy drove a deuce-and-a-half to pick up two pallets of sun-cooked Budweiser meant for the dump. We loaded and hauled our cargo to the ARVN compound, where we met a shady character named Lei, and exchanged the beer for 4 skids of C-rations made in 1956, and a pallet of hard to find LRP rations.
We took this load to the Republic of Korea supply depot in Long Binh, met with a man named Gordon, and swapped our C rations for 2 pallets of junk food, 1 pallet of Hamm’s beer, 2 cases of Jack Daniels hidden in the junk food, and 10 cases of Ramen noodles. From there we traveled about 10 miles to a small village, and delivered the noodles and half the LRPs to a nun – a friend of the sergeant major – who ran the village school. Mission accomplished, loaded with booze and munchies, we headed home, the uncovered skid of Hamm’s sticking out the back of the truck like a sign that hollered “Steal Me!”
But first we stopped at a Coke-girls’ stand for a couple of not-so-cold 33’s, kidded around with mama-san, and chowed down on LRPs. You might think that two seasoned grunts would stay watchful, not talk to street urchins on both sides of the truck at the same time. I realized something was wrong when Tommy glanced into his rear view mirror, then threw his glass beer bottle as hard as he could, hitting a guy standing on the skid of Hamm’s right between the eyes. Streaming blood, he went flying off the pallet, falling 6 feet, landing flat on his back next to the deuce-and-a-half’s rear tires. Pointing to my right, Tommy shouted, “Get that guy!”
Now, to me, fresh from the boonies, “Get that guy!” meant only one thing. I found my target, nudged the selector switch from safe to fire, and as my finger tightened on the trigger, through the peep sight, a running figure, the box of our potato chips held over his head about as big as him. I thought, “Holy shit! It’s just a kid!” But for a moment in time it didn’t matter. Suddenly it was a different world and I was going to waste him. But then the Coke-girls started screaming “No shoot! No shoot!” And all the urchins started screaming “No shoot! No Shoot!” And the kid’s mom started screaming “Please no shoot!” And the kid dropped the chips and ran away, screaming “No shoot! No shoot!” And then, just as suddenly, I remembered where I was, and I didn’t shoot.
The kid disappeared, I avoided everlasting guilt, we got our potato chips back, and everything returned to normal. Except the guy Tommy whacked with the beer bottle still lay in the powdery dust, moaning, not moving much. We hopped in the truck and sped away as fast as we could. Away from the urchins cursing us, throwing rocks that hit the cab with surprising force, cracking the windshield, breaking the head and taillights. Away from the terrified crying Coke girls, from the screaming wife of the bleeding man. Away from the young men with rifles running towards us with bad intentions.
We whipped that truck so hard it was trailing a cloud of oily black smoke when we finally lurched into the PX supply yard. There we met with a sergeant who checked the load and asked about our trip. We said nothing about the Coke stand girls, but we did tell of the kids who swarmed the deuce and a half, now in need of serious repair. I still think of that kid, how scared he was. How he thought he was going to die. How I almost shot him, but didn’t. And I’m glad about that. Then I think about how we just left that guy lying in the dust, and how these two things still won’t balance. Won’t cancel each other out. But at least I didn’t shoot the kid. __________________
Jack Parente served with Echo Recon 1-7 First Cavalry Division in ’69-’70. He was awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal, and twice received the Purple Heart. He retired from the video/film production field as a producer/director in 2014. He writes the 1st/7th First Cavalry column of The Saber, newsletter of the First Cavalry Association.
Top photo Saigon, 1966 — a woman counts her receipts as she sits beside a sidewalk table crowded with black market whiskey, cigarettes and canned food stolen from an American PX or from the docks where American ships unloaded their vast supplies. Photo UPI. Regarding the black market in Vietnam see Cornelius Hawkridge below.
The Sergeant Major, Coke Girls and Kids — by Jack Parente
Major General E.B. Roberts commanded the 1st Cavalry that year, but the Phouc Vinh headquarters compound was run by Command Sergeant Major Lawrence “Rabbit” Kennedy. CSM Kennedy wielded enormous power. Everything important went through him. A decorated WWII and Korea vet, he cared for the grunts fresh from the field. When he asked what I could do that didn’t involve firing a machine gun, knowing that my answer was critical, “I can do anything you tell me to do, Sir.”
He liked that. Almost everyone called him “Sir.” As the new manager of the Phouc Vinh Plantation Club I received an extra two-hundred dollars a month to keep the books straight for the club, and its dozen slot machines. This was right up my alley. I grew up in a mob-run small town and knew how to follow directions and keep my mouth shut. Kennedy valued this particular skill because running a nightclub in a combat zone required discretion of a
certain type. Beer, cigarettes, Korean bands, these item were not hard to get. But junk food—chips, pretzels, pigs feet, mini-pizzas, booze – fast-moving, high-demand items often hard to obtain through standard procurement – required wheeling and dealing to keep the club well stocked. And Kennedy, adept at horse trading, had contacts everywhere. Whatever I thought we could sell at the bar, whatever the troops wanted, the sergeant major could, and would acquire it.
About once a week, my driver, Tommy, another jungle crazed ex-grunt, and I visited a series of multinational pick-up and drop-off points, swapping our surplus stock for items in demand. In one particular swap Tommy drove a deuce-and-a-half to pick up two pallets of sun-cooked Budweiser meant for the dump. We loaded and hauled our cargo to the ARVN compound, where we met a shady character named Lei, and exchanged the beer for 4 skids of C-rations made in 1956, and a pallet of hard to find LRP rations.
But first we stopped at a Coke-girls’ stand for a couple of not-so-cold 33’s, kidded around with mama-san, and chowed down on LRPs. You might think that two seasoned grunts would stay watchful, not talk to street urchins on both sides of the truck at the same time. I realized something was wrong when Tommy glanced into his rear view mirror, then threw his glass beer bottle as hard as he could, hitting a guy standing on the skid of Hamm’s right between the eyes. Streaming blood, he went flying off the pallet, falling 6 feet, landing flat on his back next to the deuce-and-a-half’s rear tires. Pointing to my right, Tommy shouted, “Get that guy!”
The kid disappeared, I avoided everlasting guilt, we got our potato chips back, and everything returned to normal. Except the guy Tommy whacked with the beer bottle still lay in the powdery dust, moaning, not moving much. We hopped in the truck and sped away as fast as we could. Away from the urchins cursing us, throwing rocks that hit the cab with surprising force, cracking the windshield, breaking the head and taillights. Away from the terrified crying Coke girls, from the screaming wife of the bleeding man. Away from the young men with rifles running towards us with bad intentions.
__________________
Jack Parente served with Echo Recon 1-7 First Cavalry Division in ’69-’70. He was awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal, and twice received the Purple Heart. He retired from the video/film production field as a producer/director in 2014. He writes the 1st/7th First Cavalry column of The Saber, newsletter of the First Cavalry Association.
Top photo
Saigon, 1966 — a woman counts her receipts as she sits beside a sidewalk table crowded with black market whiskey, cigarettes and canned food stolen from an American PX or from the docks where American ships unloaded their vast supplies. Photo UPI. Regarding the black market in Vietnam see Cornelius Hawkridge below.
Obituary / Lawrence “Rabbit” Kennedy
Over abundant praise for CSM Kennedy
Cornelius Hawkridge and the Colossal Black Markets of Vietnam