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| Fort Bragg, NC, 1967 |
As we went through the monotonous rigors of indoctrination into “The Guard” we got acquainted as forced comrades are want to do. The natural cynicism of young men of our age and era coursed through our conversations. This war was all madness…a fact we well understood. It was a great in-joke that this time happened to be on us. We had friends in common and we bonded as we prepared to depart on our journey. “Moon” was a shortish, roly-poly Irishman with a shock of red hair and a cherubic face full of freckles who, despite his size, didn’t shy away from an altercation.
Fort Eustis
After we were disassembled into different platoons at Fort Bragg, I only ran into Moon occasionally during those eight weeks. It wasn’t until we got to Fort Eustis, Virginia (a.k.a. Fort Uterus, Vagina) that we became those two Yankees from Masta-two-shits and figuratively joined-at-the-hip. The first night we got into our new barracks we were approached by a smallish guy with five o’clock shadow, a lugubrious grin and an attitude that matched before we’d even dropped our duffel bags. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if not for the half-dozen sneering cohorts fanning out at his sides O.K. Corral style. Seems this nimrod took issue with the fact that while most of these regular Army soldiers taking AIT would be shipping out to Viet Nam following graduation, Moon and I would be returning to Massachusetts. As we faced-off against this mob, I was getting the distinct feeling that things were about to turn really ugly. Moon’s gift of gab and Irish luck came through for him though when it turned out that he and our torturer were from the same hometown and even had friends in common. Once the confrontation became less confrontational, his goons, relieved of duty, shrugged their shoulders and flopped onto their bunks while Moon and Nimrod chatted away the remains-of-the-day like a pair of debutantes at a white-glove tea.
~
So those months ran along and we learned all about the workings of the “Huey.” I committed to memory nuggets of technical info such as the contents of the fire extinguisher which is (sound it out) Mono bromo tri flouro methane, knowledge that has served me well in the years since…yeah, right. The instructors nickname for the hardware that attached the main rotor to the aircraft was the "Jesus Nut" for pretty obvious reasons. The tail rotor had a moniker as well, they called it the “Fan.” Why? Because if it comes off you watch that pilot’s ass sweat.” We were in training to be “Crew Chiefs” and, God forbid, not under-the-hood mechanics. The Crew Chief’s job was to get passengers on and off the aircraft and in a combat situation, man one of the M-60s while hanging out of the open cabin doors on monkey straps to strafe the LZ. This position made for a tempting target from below, and without getting into gory details, a new Crew Chief’s frequent first duty when assigned to a Huey in Nam was to clean up after his predecessor.
~
One of the “Dirty Dozen” of Georgia guardsmen in the billet returned from Christmas leave with an acoustic guitar under his arm. He kept it under his bunk with the intention of improving on the instrument while off-duty. When it caught my eye he offered it to me to try and I sang a few snippets of songs. From then on I gave him what tips I could and eventually my repertoire got to be “Summer Rain” by Johnny Rivers, “I Who Have Nothing” by James Brown and an oldie from Elvis called “Soldier Boy.” Given the situation and the sentiments of the song, “Soldier Boy” was a hit in the barracks. For a time, after lights-out, they would pass me the guitar and I would lullaby the young warriors into the arms of Orpheus perched Buddha-like on my top bunk.
~
Moon was an entertaining storyteller but I think some of his humor chafed this bunch of rednecks—he was just too much of a damn Yankee. He liked motorcycles and skiing, that much I knew from chatting during the first flight to Fort Bragg, but his greater passion was scuba diving. As a kid he had been so fascinated by it that he had stuck his father’s air-compressor hose into his mouth and jumped into Lake Shirley to sit on the bottom as long as he could stand it. One night as the soldiers broke into snores one-by-one, and while legions of cockroaches swarmed the latrine, Moon, from his bottom bunk, near-whispered a story from his days as a commercial diver.
The Dive
It seems there was a maintenance project going on in Boston, not far from the Museum of Science where the Charles reaches the harbor. The huge pumps along with their enormous inlet/outlet pipes were being updated and restored, and he and his diving partner, Glenn (his boss), had the assignment of assessing the daily progress. It was day and night work although it wouldn’t have made any difference inside the piping with its perpetual darkness. There was of course electric lighting in place but it never seemed quite adequate in its amber glow and seemed less so at night though this was totally psychological. He and Glenn had slipped into the water and made their way into that gaping maw.
At first they swam together but bit-by-bit Glenn dropped back, figiting with something along the way. Moon kept on ahead. As when he was a youngster, as soon as he got underwater a feeling of intense wonder and excitement gripped him and he was in-the-zone again. When he achieved that state time slowed down for him and he became mesmerized by his environment. There were a few places where the pipes intersected so it was imperative to stay together, but that cardinal rule had now been broken, and he’d gotten so far from Glenn that he couldn’t see him any more. He cast his flashlight back to where he’d been. The plankton in the water was so dense that visibility was not more than a few yards. The flashlight proved worthless and shining it only lit up the silt to the blaring level of amber static. It was like putting on your high beams in a snowstorm. He could see the hand in front of his face, but just barely. Kicking over to the inner arc of the pipe wall, he was reminded that he was not alone. The wall was festooned with the usual cast-of-characters. There were barnacles and mussels, dog winkles and whelks, sea squirts and stars, urchins and…crabs…lots and lots of crabs. He was hovering close enough that they raised their claws in warning. A school of mummichogs was orbiting about in curiosity as well which inexplicably brought cave paintings to mind.
Suddenly it hit him, “Shit, what time is it?” In his hubris he hadn’t noted when they went under so his watch wouldn’t help him. He looked at his gauges using his flashlight and the breathing gas was at a concerningly low level. He looked around him again and realized he’d lost his bearings and was not sure where he had come from. He became aware that he was bobbing with the slight push/pull of the tidal forces working against the pumps. Those pumps now seemed to thrum like a giant’s heartbeat, louder and louder. He started swimming in the logical direction but encountered another crusted wall where he didn’t expect one. The Air Pressure Alert (APA) sounded and flashed, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He had no choice, he had to start stroking and kicking in some direction…
…The sensation was like being inside of a huge heart, maybe passing through a valve...(lub-dub)...like riding the current of circulation…shrunken down to the size of a blood cell maybe...(remember to breathe)...like in that stupid movie with Raquel Welch...(push-pull)...she looked so good in that wetsuit on the movie poster...it got me to piss away a sunny Saturday in a dark theater...what was it called? “What was…wait; he thought, is that a shadow?” The sound of his own heartbeat now began to throb in his ears…
…it was, and that shadow grew to be an unmistakably human form: Glenn. A hand thrust towards him from out of the murk and their arms locked at the wrist…God creating Adam. It pulled him in what turned out to be the right direction and then disappeared into the fog of silt and plankton ahead of him, leading the way. After what seemed a million years later Moon breached the surface and grappled himself up onto the staging dock, yanked off his mask and regulator and gulped at the night air like they weren’t making any more of it. Glenn was standing there fully suited-up but dry-as-a-bone. He spit out his regulator and barked, “What in the fuck took you so long? I was just getting ready to go back down looking for you.”
“You...just...pulled...me...out,” Moon gasped the words with just a hint of doubt.
“You’re narcotic dude. I had trouble with my shit and I had to abort my dive. I tried to get your attention but I lost you in the soup. You were swimming solo down there, Cap.”
Coda:
Fantastic Voyage, yeah that was it, Fantastic Voyage.
It seems there was a maintenance project going on in Boston, not far from the Museum of Science where the Charles reaches the harbor. The huge pumps along with their enormous inlet/outlet pipes were being updated and restored, and he and his diving partner, Glenn (his boss), had the assignment of assessing the daily progress. It was day and night work although it wouldn’t have made any difference inside the piping with its perpetual darkness. There was of course electric lighting in place but it never seemed quite adequate in its amber glow and seemed less so at night though this was totally psychological. He and Glenn had slipped into the water and made their way into that gaping maw.
At first they swam together but bit-by-bit Glenn dropped back, figiting with something along the way. Moon kept on ahead. As when he was a youngster, as soon as he got underwater a feeling of intense wonder and excitement gripped him and he was in-the-zone again. When he achieved that state time slowed down for him and he became mesmerized by his environment. There were a few places where the pipes intersected so it was imperative to stay together, but that cardinal rule had now been broken, and he’d gotten so far from Glenn that he couldn’t see him any more. He cast his flashlight back to where he’d been. The plankton in the water was so dense that visibility was not more than a few yards. The flashlight proved worthless and shining it only lit up the silt to the blaring level of amber static. It was like putting on your high beams in a snowstorm. He could see the hand in front of his face, but just barely. Kicking over to the inner arc of the pipe wall, he was reminded that he was not alone. The wall was festooned with the usual cast-of-characters. There were barnacles and mussels, dog winkles and whelks, sea squirts and stars, urchins and…crabs…lots and lots of crabs. He was hovering close enough that they raised their claws in warning. A school of mummichogs was orbiting about in curiosity as well which inexplicably brought cave paintings to mind.
Suddenly it hit him, “Shit, what time is it?” In his hubris he hadn’t noted when they went under so his watch wouldn’t help him. He looked at his gauges using his flashlight and the breathing gas was at a concerningly low level. He looked around him again and realized he’d lost his bearings and was not sure where he had come from. He became aware that he was bobbing with the slight push/pull of the tidal forces working against the pumps. Those pumps now seemed to thrum like a giant’s heartbeat, louder and louder. He started swimming in the logical direction but encountered another crusted wall where he didn’t expect one. The Air Pressure Alert (APA) sounded and flashed, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He had no choice, he had to start stroking and kicking in some direction…
…The sensation was like being inside of a huge heart, maybe passing through a valve...(lub-dub)...like riding the current of circulation…shrunken down to the size of a blood cell maybe...(remember to breathe)...like in that stupid movie with Raquel Welch...(push-pull)...she looked so good in that wetsuit on the movie poster...it got me to piss away a sunny Saturday in a dark theater...what was it called? “What was…wait; he thought, is that a shadow?” The sound of his own heartbeat now began to throb in his ears…
…it was, and that shadow grew to be an unmistakably human form: Glenn. A hand thrust towards him from out of the murk and their arms locked at the wrist…God creating Adam. It pulled him in what turned out to be the right direction and then disappeared into the fog of silt and plankton ahead of him, leading the way. After what seemed a million years later Moon breached the surface and grappled himself up onto the staging dock, yanked off his mask and regulator and gulped at the night air like they weren’t making any more of it. Glenn was standing there fully suited-up but dry-as-a-bone. He spit out his regulator and barked, “What in the fuck took you so long? I was just getting ready to go back down looking for you.”
“You...just...pulled...me...out,” Moon gasped the words with just a hint of doubt.
“You’re narcotic dude. I had trouble with my shit and I had to abort my dive. I tried to get your attention but I lost you in the soup. You were swimming solo down there, Cap.”
Coda:
Fantastic Voyage, yeah that was it, Fantastic Voyage.
