Camaraderie

Me standing next to my hooch after Typhoon Hester, feeling like a drowned rat

It was September 1971. I was 20 years old and two months from leaving Chu Lai, South Viet Nam, realizing the completion of my obligation for military service. The “enemy” that day was either a monsoon or a typhoon.

Our living quarters on the base was a plywood-and-tin six-man hut (called a hooch in the vernacular). The only reason it was still standing afterwards is because all six of us occupants had tied a rope to the inside gable end (where the point of the roof meets the front of the hooch). We stood in the middle of the center aisle for several hours playing tug-of-war with 80 mile-an-hour winds that were trying to blow it down. I think we won because we got to repair ours afterwards while the guys on either side of us had to rebuild. There was not a lot of difference, actually. Most of the living quarters on the base sustained heavy damage that day.

When people ask about camaraderie among people who served together, I tell them, “It’s just about a bunch of kids beating the odds. You know, us against whatever.” And we’re still here.

 

My friend Kenny from next door after the storm