The Tis Bottle - Part One
This entry was posted on December 19, 2007 11:46 AM and is filed under the troops.
The Tis Bottle is a short story written by R. Richard Higdon. R. Richard is a combat-harden Vietnam Veteran; a Marine who I met a Hines VA Hospital in Maywood, Illinois. The Tis Bottle is a story he wrote more that 18-years ago. It is his dream to have this short story published and to get it out to the troops. I thought I'd start by publishing the story on my blog, and then fulfill his dream by printing copies and passing them out to the troops once our tour starts. Not one word has been changed or edited. Enjoy part one of "The Tis Bottle"
The Tis Bottle
My daddy took me to the circus when I was four. I laughed and it was lots of fun. The clowns were funny so I laughed a lot more. My daddy said I had "strong convictions." I never knew what that big word was and big people would smile when my daddy would try to have me say the big word. It was okay 'cause I never got a spanking from it. My daddy took a lot of time and talked to me about the big word that I should remember, but I forgot what I was suppose to remember. The kids that I played with never knew any big words so how come I had to know a big word so big people would smile. My daddy never smiled but he had a strong face. I know his strong face 'cause it was the first part of the big word that I was suppose to remember. A lot of the time I could remember the first part of the big word, convic ..... I always forgot.
At the circus, I was holding a hot dog with two hands. My daddy told me that I dropped my hot dog a lot when I used one hand. I think my daddy liked me a lot when I holded my hot dog with two hands. I like the yellow stuff on the hot dog a lot and I hate the red and green stuff. Big people always put yellow, green and red stuff on a hot dog and give it to us kids. When I get big, I will put the yellow stuff on all by myself.
At the first part of the circus all the big people standed and sang a screechy song as a big red, white and blue washcloth was in the air. I would not have standed but my daddy pulled my arm when he standed so that's how come I standed too. My daddy's heart was hurting 'cause his hand was on it and he was crying. And the more the washcloth was in the air, the more his heart hurt 'cause the more he cried. I think washcloths make people cry. I used to cry when I got washed with one. I was afraid 'cause I never thought my daddy was scared of nothin' even if his heart hurt lots and lots. I remember 'cause it was before the funny clowns and before the big elep'ants that ran in circles holding their behinds. I felt the pain in my head as a little car overturned and people screamed.
"Damn it, quickly, more blood or he'll bleed to death," yelled the surgeon. My mind instantly returned to the present as the transfusion awakened my thoughts and the importance of clowns, washcloths, little cars and circling elephants faded into oblivion. I slowly opened my eyes, gazing at my chest, as ID tags focused from grainy gray to well-defined aluminum indentations against a background of adhesive white.
Aichison
Jeron
2178905 0
USMC M
Christian
"Christ Jer, were you lucky. Another inch to the left and you'd be in a body bag with an ID tag between your teeth," erupted a nearby voice. The statement had a tinge of tongue-in-cheek humor with the intent of easing ones burdens. One quickly realized that humor ... even mock humor was the key to maintaining ones sanity in time of great peril.
"Thanks for droppin' by Bill," I exclaimed as I moved my head to the left only to see long rows of racks perfectly aligned with I. V. bottles waving as if to suggest last chance efforts. I squinted my right eye as if aiming in at the enemy while peering the full length of sick bay. "Yep," I exclaimed, "it looks like the Corps used a chalk line on these racks - they're perfectly straight! If my M14 sights were this accurate, I'd never miss Viet Cong Charlie. I'll remember this the next time I run out of ammo in the boonies. It'll definitely make me feel better knowing that if one moves any rack a grenade pins width to the left or right that it would be out of alignment."
"Ain't that right," replied Bill. I recalled having heard these words of a mutual assent a thousand times. Someone would be ranting and raving about moving a bunker four feet to the right. Naturally, the ones doin' all the cussin' were the Marines that dug the bunker in the first place. So while digging the second bunker, they'd be spitting' bullets and some unsquared-away non-hacker would casually stroll by and say, "ain't that right!"
I winced as the pain shot through the gaping wound, almost lifting me off the rack.
"Hey, it's okay to moan and groan 'cause doc said the anesthesia's wearin' off an' that pain is gonna be unreal."
"Ain't that right" I said as two sharp pains rolled napalm-like through my body, attempting to decimate any stored up energy and purge it of even the slightest sense of well being. Beads of sweat dotted my forehead but I refused to cry out. "Did you ask doc how long I'm gonna be here? I've got to get back to my fire team. I can't be missing any more missions - my men are countin' on me."
"Hey, slow down," replied Bill. "You ain't goin' nowhere. Those machine gun slugs they dug out of your chest left some holes that your body's not about to forget. Doc said it's gonna take at least three months to heal and that's barrin' no infection. We don't need no fire team leader that's not a hundred percent. So relax an' get well 'cause VC Charlie's still gonna be there when you get back. Besides Jer, why don't you just ship out on the Repose? It's the best floating hospital built with all kinds of fancy gizmo's to keep you kickin'. It'll take longer to get home by ship and you need extra time to heal. I've heard the chow's great ... a damn sight better than those 'ham and mother's," exclaimed Bill while scratching the unshaven stubble on his face.
I slowly reached for my gas mask pouch and withdrew a little wooden case of empty bottles that I squeezed gently with one hand as if to relieve tension. I never could figure out why the hell they had "M" for "medium" gas mask-size on Marine ID tags. The blood type I could understand in case of emergency transfusion. I was glad that the "O" has shown clearly to the right of my serial number. I am sure that it helped save my life. Rifle, ammo, gas mask and a good pair of jungle boots ... the newer issue jungle boots with the steel shank that stops punji sticks when wading through rice paddies. Who the hell cares if your gas mask size is small, medium or large. If you lose your gas mask in the field or if there is a malfunction, you simply walk to supplies and draw a small, medium or large gas mask. Why they feel it's necessary to include one's gas mask size on the ID tag sure beats the hell out of me. And what happens if one has a head as large as a watermelon of as small as an orange? Shouldn't they be able to have a gas mask that fits their head? Why not have extra large or extra small so they can enjoy the privilege of breathing also during chemical warfare. I guess it's just the system and the system is going to work the way it's been programmed to work. We've got kids over hear that end up dying for their country, but stateside, if they get caught buying liquor, they'd be jailed for being under age. The slogan goes, "Too young to buy - but not to die."
I guess it's the politicians and generals that decide what the program is - I mean, they sure as hell never asked me.
All these thoughts were spinning within my head as Bill remarked, "Hey Jer, what's that little case of empty bottles you got there?"
"Nothing much Bill, just something that I gotten attached to ... collecting small empty bottles and fitting them in this little wooden carrier with individual slots. An old Vietnamese papasan hand carved the carrier from a single piece of exotic wood bought from the black-market. It kind of keeps my mind occupied so I don't dwell on any one thing for too long a time, if you know what I mean."
"Ain't that right," replied Bill, "Some guys go to Dogpatch near DaNang and get a girl to help ease their mind from the war. They're just doin' it their own individual way."
"It may be true, Bill, but that's an outlet - not a reason as to why things happen over here. There's got to be some livable code that gives answers as to why the hell we're here. There must be an answer that can hold true in every circumstance and yet be explained in a simple manner. As far as going to Dogpatch for sex, they've got diseases over there that haven't even been named yet and I've heard it's off limits 'cause of all the medical problems. Besides, how does one know if the girl's on your side or if she's a Viet Cong sympathizer? The problem, Bill, is that in Nam nobody knows who the hell the enemy is."
"Ain't that right," said Bill for the thousandth time.
"I've got to get back to our fire team Jer, so hang in there and keep collectin' those little bottles. I see you've got only one space left in your carrier. You should be done with that slot quicker that it takes to say VC Charlie," said Bill grinning brightly.
I gazed at Bill's boyish grin and smiled as the pain seared within the anhesive cavity, almost to the very bone itself. I felt as weak as a newborn baby.
"Christ Jer, that's the first time I've ever seen you smile."
Suddenly, a tear began creeping slowly down my cheek. "Bill, before you go - I pray two things. First, that we get out of Nam alive and converse again. And second, that someday, before I die, I am able to find the Tis bottle."
Bill felt a lump in his throat and exclaimed, "You can count me in on that first prayer for sure. I ain't goin' to argue about that one. Jer, that Tis bottle you're talking about ... is that the one that you've been searching for all this time?"
"Yes, it is Bill. There are six bottles in all; three on the each side of the carrier. If the Tis bottle is ever found, the carrier will be complete. However, I could easily go an entire lifetime without ever finding it."
The Tis Bottle
My daddy took me to the circus when I was four. I laughed and it was lots of fun. The clowns were funny so I laughed a lot more. My daddy said I had "strong convictions." I never knew what that big word was and big people would smile when my daddy would try to have me say the big word. It was okay 'cause I never got a spanking from it. My daddy took a lot of time and talked to me about the big word that I should remember, but I forgot what I was suppose to remember. The kids that I played with never knew any big words so how come I had to know a big word so big people would smile. My daddy never smiled but he had a strong face. I know his strong face 'cause it was the first part of the big word that I was suppose to remember. A lot of the time I could remember the first part of the big word, convic ..... I always forgot.
At the circus, I was holding a hot dog with two hands. My daddy told me that I dropped my hot dog a lot when I used one hand. I think my daddy liked me a lot when I holded my hot dog with two hands. I like the yellow stuff on the hot dog a lot and I hate the red and green stuff. Big people always put yellow, green and red stuff on a hot dog and give it to us kids. When I get big, I will put the yellow stuff on all by myself.
At the first part of the circus all the big people standed and sang a screechy song as a big red, white and blue washcloth was in the air. I would not have standed but my daddy pulled my arm when he standed so that's how come I standed too. My daddy's heart was hurting 'cause his hand was on it and he was crying. And the more the washcloth was in the air, the more his heart hurt 'cause the more he cried. I think washcloths make people cry. I used to cry when I got washed with one. I was afraid 'cause I never thought my daddy was scared of nothin' even if his heart hurt lots and lots. I remember 'cause it was before the funny clowns and before the big elep'ants that ran in circles holding their behinds. I felt the pain in my head as a little car overturned and people screamed.
"Damn it, quickly, more blood or he'll bleed to death," yelled the surgeon. My mind instantly returned to the present as the transfusion awakened my thoughts and the importance of clowns, washcloths, little cars and circling elephants faded into oblivion. I slowly opened my eyes, gazing at my chest, as ID tags focused from grainy gray to well-defined aluminum indentations against a background of adhesive white.
Aichison
Jeron
2178905 0
USMC M
Christian
"Christ Jer, were you lucky. Another inch to the left and you'd be in a body bag with an ID tag between your teeth," erupted a nearby voice. The statement had a tinge of tongue-in-cheek humor with the intent of easing ones burdens. One quickly realized that humor ... even mock humor was the key to maintaining ones sanity in time of great peril.
"Thanks for droppin' by Bill," I exclaimed as I moved my head to the left only to see long rows of racks perfectly aligned with I. V. bottles waving as if to suggest last chance efforts. I squinted my right eye as if aiming in at the enemy while peering the full length of sick bay. "Yep," I exclaimed, "it looks like the Corps used a chalk line on these racks - they're perfectly straight! If my M14 sights were this accurate, I'd never miss Viet Cong Charlie. I'll remember this the next time I run out of ammo in the boonies. It'll definitely make me feel better knowing that if one moves any rack a grenade pins width to the left or right that it would be out of alignment."
"Ain't that right," replied Bill. I recalled having heard these words of a mutual assent a thousand times. Someone would be ranting and raving about moving a bunker four feet to the right. Naturally, the ones doin' all the cussin' were the Marines that dug the bunker in the first place. So while digging the second bunker, they'd be spitting' bullets and some unsquared-away non-hacker would casually stroll by and say, "ain't that right!"
I winced as the pain shot through the gaping wound, almost lifting me off the rack.
"Hey, it's okay to moan and groan 'cause doc said the anesthesia's wearin' off an' that pain is gonna be unreal."
"Ain't that right" I said as two sharp pains rolled napalm-like through my body, attempting to decimate any stored up energy and purge it of even the slightest sense of well being. Beads of sweat dotted my forehead but I refused to cry out. "Did you ask doc how long I'm gonna be here? I've got to get back to my fire team. I can't be missing any more missions - my men are countin' on me."
"Hey, slow down," replied Bill. "You ain't goin' nowhere. Those machine gun slugs they dug out of your chest left some holes that your body's not about to forget. Doc said it's gonna take at least three months to heal and that's barrin' no infection. We don't need no fire team leader that's not a hundred percent. So relax an' get well 'cause VC Charlie's still gonna be there when you get back. Besides Jer, why don't you just ship out on the Repose? It's the best floating hospital built with all kinds of fancy gizmo's to keep you kickin'. It'll take longer to get home by ship and you need extra time to heal. I've heard the chow's great ... a damn sight better than those 'ham and mother's," exclaimed Bill while scratching the unshaven stubble on his face.
I slowly reached for my gas mask pouch and withdrew a little wooden case of empty bottles that I squeezed gently with one hand as if to relieve tension. I never could figure out why the hell they had "M" for "medium" gas mask-size on Marine ID tags. The blood type I could understand in case of emergency transfusion. I was glad that the "O" has shown clearly to the right of my serial number. I am sure that it helped save my life. Rifle, ammo, gas mask and a good pair of jungle boots ... the newer issue jungle boots with the steel shank that stops punji sticks when wading through rice paddies. Who the hell cares if your gas mask size is small, medium or large. If you lose your gas mask in the field or if there is a malfunction, you simply walk to supplies and draw a small, medium or large gas mask. Why they feel it's necessary to include one's gas mask size on the ID tag sure beats the hell out of me. And what happens if one has a head as large as a watermelon of as small as an orange? Shouldn't they be able to have a gas mask that fits their head? Why not have extra large or extra small so they can enjoy the privilege of breathing also during chemical warfare. I guess it's just the system and the system is going to work the way it's been programmed to work. We've got kids over hear that end up dying for their country, but stateside, if they get caught buying liquor, they'd be jailed for being under age. The slogan goes, "Too young to buy - but not to die."
I guess it's the politicians and generals that decide what the program is - I mean, they sure as hell never asked me.
All these thoughts were spinning within my head as Bill remarked, "Hey Jer, what's that little case of empty bottles you got there?"
"Nothing much Bill, just something that I gotten attached to ... collecting small empty bottles and fitting them in this little wooden carrier with individual slots. An old Vietnamese papasan hand carved the carrier from a single piece of exotic wood bought from the black-market. It kind of keeps my mind occupied so I don't dwell on any one thing for too long a time, if you know what I mean."
"Ain't that right," replied Bill, "Some guys go to Dogpatch near DaNang and get a girl to help ease their mind from the war. They're just doin' it their own individual way."
"It may be true, Bill, but that's an outlet - not a reason as to why things happen over here. There's got to be some livable code that gives answers as to why the hell we're here. There must be an answer that can hold true in every circumstance and yet be explained in a simple manner. As far as going to Dogpatch for sex, they've got diseases over there that haven't even been named yet and I've heard it's off limits 'cause of all the medical problems. Besides, how does one know if the girl's on your side or if she's a Viet Cong sympathizer? The problem, Bill, is that in Nam nobody knows who the hell the enemy is."
"Ain't that right," said Bill for the thousandth time.
"I've got to get back to our fire team Jer, so hang in there and keep collectin' those little bottles. I see you've got only one space left in your carrier. You should be done with that slot quicker that it takes to say VC Charlie," said Bill grinning brightly.
I gazed at Bill's boyish grin and smiled as the pain seared within the anhesive cavity, almost to the very bone itself. I felt as weak as a newborn baby.
"Christ Jer, that's the first time I've ever seen you smile."
Suddenly, a tear began creeping slowly down my cheek. "Bill, before you go - I pray two things. First, that we get out of Nam alive and converse again. And second, that someday, before I die, I am able to find the Tis bottle."
Bill felt a lump in his throat and exclaimed, "You can count me in on that first prayer for sure. I ain't goin' to argue about that one. Jer, that Tis bottle you're talking about ... is that the one that you've been searching for all this time?"
"Yes, it is Bill. There are six bottles in all; three on the each side of the carrier. If the Tis bottle is ever found, the carrier will be complete. However, I could easily go an entire lifetime without ever finding it."