The Eternal Soldier. 7,200 A company of screwups in the Vietnam war. (standard:adventure, 7211 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1195/880	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An army master sergeant arrives in Vietnam during that war, only to drop down in rank to private and become a cook. The reason is too complex to explain here.

Jumping down off the back of a deuce-and-a-half supply truck, I drop to
my feet onto hard-packed red earth. Without a word, the driver waits, 
watching through a rearview mirror until I pull a duffel bag and 
suitcase off, then roars away, this being only one stop on his morning 
mission. 

Here I am, at my new post. A sign reads "'C' Company, 2nd Battalion,
35th Armored Division.” There is also a hand-lettered sign next to the 
entrance of a squad-tent, saying "Orderly Room." 

I'm “Fresh Fish” as the term goes, the same as in those prison movies.
Meaning that I smell and will continue to stink until I prove myself 
there. I also have another strike against me. Besides being new, I'm a 
former “REMF,” automatically suspect by all combat troops. REMF stands 
for Rear Echelon Mother-Fucker. In my case it means that I've come from 
a cushy job back at Headquarters USARV (US Army, Republic of Vietnam) 
to this combat outfit. It also strongly implies that there has to be a 
reason for the change. 

People in the rear don't ever volunteer for combat duty. Nobody wakes up
in a villa in Saigon, dresses in starched jungle fatigues, eats a good 
breakfast in an air-conditioned mess hall or restaurant. Then he asks 
to see the company commander with “I'd like to go out to the field, 
sir. I wanna get shot at and live in a hole in the ground like a rat. 
Please, may I, sir?” 

No. If a REMF gets assigned to a combat company, there is always a good
reason -- and I'm no exception. 

Sheridan tanks grumble and roar, forcing me to step aside and wait as
three of the monsters edge between myself and the orderly-room tent. As 
they pass, clouds of red dust envelope everything. I don't know if it's 
iron ore in the ground or what causes it but that dust seems unique to 
Vietnam. 

There's still so much starch in my fatigues that even the sweat from 110
degree heat can't get it all out. The cloth across my shoulders itches 
from the stuff, also my armpits and groin. If someone looks closely, as 
I'm sure they will, the smaller black PFC stripe on my collar conflicts 
with larger, still unfaded, spots on the sleeves where larger insignia 
have been taken off. The difference in size is apparent. I've thought 
about buying new clothing before coming out here to the boonies but 
know it would make no difference. In either case, word will soon get 
around. 

Dropping my bags outside, I walk into the tent and lay my 201 personnel
file on the desk of a SP4 inside. He looks up from a manual typewriter 
to eye me casually. I can see him looking from face to sleeve. 

“Kinda old for a PFC, ain't ya?” he asks, picking up the file that
contains records of eighteen years of service. I say nothing, ignoring 
him in favor of looking around the tent. Let's get this shit over with, 
is foremost on my mind. 

The canvas encloses a space twenty-feet square and maybe nine-feet high
at its peak. There is electricity, with several large floor-fans 
blowing heat around, occasionally rustling papers attached to a 
portable bulletin board. Two other, empty, desks complete the ensemble. 


“CO won't be back today. First sergeant's down at headquarters.” The
clerk brings me back to Earth. “You can hang around for awhile or wait 
in the mess tent. I'm Simmons, the company clerk.” He reaches a hand 
up, not bothering to get to his feet. I shake it. 

“Mike. Mike Edwards,” I tell him. “I'll be in the mess hall.”  No need
to ask which tent. It has a distinctive shape with one section higher 
than the rest for ventilating stoves. 

The mess tent appears to be the largest in the small compound. I can see
a makeshift counter made of stacked three-gallon insulated cans with 
wooden planks stretched between them. Behind the counter, nearer the 
front of the tent, there are several field-stoves with gasoline burners 
under them. Two cooks in fatigues, looking incongruous with white 
aprons worn over utility uniforms and paper hats, are busily doing 


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