Not only were most of the crowd not righteous A-4 drivers, their noise was drowning out the Filipino band’s version of such favorites as “You Better Quit Kickin’ My Dog Around,” which usually caused Puresome to get all wet and runny.
by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
The Cubi Point O’ Club was crowded as hell with aviators fresh from Yankee Station. Puresome and Weed had been there since early afternoon after sneaking off from their respective extremely responsible junior officer collateral duties aboard USS Independence (CVA-62). They were at the stage of beer-swilling (short of bullet-proof and invisible) where the facial muscles are paralyzed, limiting the subject to a single, silly-assed expression and terse speech.
Early-on camaraderie had gradually lost out to sullen belligerence as the club had filled up with Phantom and A-6 pukes, RIOs and some ship’s company folks as well. The last group included the air boss, who besides being a commander, was considered by many to be pukedom’s poster boy and first cousin to the south end of a northbound horse.
Not only were most of the crowd not righteous A-4 drivers, their noise was drowning out the Filipino band’s version of such favorites as “You Better Quit Kickin’ My Dog Around,” which usually caused Puresome to get all wet and runny.
“Hey, Weed,” Puresome nudged his roommate. “Look at that weenie air boss sitting over there with that bunch of blackshoe weenies!”
“Yup,” commented Weed incisively.
“I vote we launch an Alfa strike,” continued Puresome.
Other malcontents joined up to select ordnance and consider mil settings. None of the shot glasses lofted from the bar across the smoke-filled room actually struck the target, but its approaches were severely cratered.
Though it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Puresome and Weed found it prudent to exit at low altitude and high speed for different parts of the crowd, far from the bar, to avoid missiles and considerable flak launched from the impact area. Puresome was also moved by the relentless filtration of San Miguel through his system, and he left Weed for the long trip to the head or the bushes outside of the side entrance, whichever came first.
After a trip outside and a furtive stop back at the bar for more cold beer, Puresome eventually found Weed in intense conversation with a short, skinheaded individual. Weed was staring down at him like a snake stares at a conejo.
“I bet you’re a … goddamn … Marine!” Weed was saying. “I bet you’re a … goddamn … captain!” he continued. “I bet you’re a … goddam rotorhead!” Weed hissed, moving to about two inches from skinhead’s face.
To Puresome, grinning fixedly, time went one-potato, two-potato while the object of Weed’s withering scorn deliberately shifted his bottle from his right hand to his left. Quietly, he drew back his fist, estimated range, elevation and windage to Weed’s nose, and fired … smack! The resulting hit rendered Weed’s normally perpendicular snoot about 45 degrees to port.
Time again went one-potato, two-potato while a thin trickle of blood began to seep out of Weed’s bent nose. The little captain just leaned back and surveyed his work. Weed was still grinning, the neural road to awareness being somewhat awash in San Miguel.
Finally, the truth dawned. Puresome and Weed slowly faced each other. “Goddam, Weed,” said Puresome, “he hit you!”
“Yeh, goddam, he did!” Weed acknowledged.
“Let’s hit him!” suggested Puresome, who was not a LTJG for nothing. Weed nodded his head in agreement.
“One … two … three!” The section turned, aimed, and fired, nailing the Jarhead who had not budged from the original scene of triumph and who now dropped out of sight amid a forest of legs.
“Fixed his ass,” said Weed.
The killer duo had hardly completed their first triumphant swig of beer when a slightly bent capitano struggled up from the floor and yelled, “Goddam, for a couple of squids, you guys can hit!”
“Aw, hell, a section ought to nail a single any time, and besides, you punched ol’ Weed a purty good one,” offered Puresome.
“Hell of a deal anyway, pardner,” said the Marine, “Us go get a beer!”
“Bet your ass,” snuffled Weed.
The rest of the evening was a paragon of interservice tolerance and buddy-dom. Whiskies were drunk, war stories were traded and even the commandant was toasted. When the Marine finally wandered off into the bleary distance, Weed allowed that he was, in his words, a “good ol’ boy.”
Aboard ship next morning, a befuddled and bent Weed roughly shook the sleeping Puresome awake. “Hey, did you see the sumbitch that hit me?” he said, pointing to the 45-degree list to his nose.
“Yup,” replied Puresome. “It was a … goddam … Marine!”