Loon - Jack McLean [53]
We deplaned in Singapore the next day, two hundred uniformed boys representing all service branches, and were politely directed into an anteroom in which we were briefed about our five-day stay.
It’s hard to imagine a more wonderful period than those first few hours of R & R.
The speaker was an army sergeant who somehow had swung the job of jobs.
“Gentlemen, there are buses waiting outside that door to take you to your designated R & R hotel. By agreement with the government of Singapore, you must remove your uniforms as soon as you arrive at the hotel.”
This announcement was greeted by spontaneous applause, whistles, whoops, and laughter.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he interrupted. “I know you’re all eager to get moving, so let me go over just a few announcements. The faster I finish, the faster I get you onto those buses.”
Complete, utter bated-breath silence.
“The uniforms come off and the civvies go on. Each hotel has a shop in the lobby where you can buy the basics to get you started. The uniforms stay off until you get back on those buses at the end of the week. Is that clear? Please understand, you can be court-martialed if you’re caught wearing a uniform.”
This news was greeted by another spontaneous outburst.
“We want you all to have a good time this week. That’s why you are here. Rest, relax, and enjoy all that Singapore has to offer.”
More cheers, more whoops.
“Should anything come up which might require our assistance, please let us know. We’re here to serve you. The office number is on the material you’ve been given.”
“How ’bout bail bonds, Sarge?” The question was blurted out from the corner of the room.
“Let’s just say that this is the last time I want to see any of you until you leave. That’s it. Any real questions?”
There were several other questions, but mostly everybody knew the drill. After all, each boy had been planning his trip for months, deciding which city to visit, which hotel to stay at, and, in some cases, which specific companion to keep. Late nights during watch, we’d talk endlessly about where to go, what to do, what the air smells like. The stories were told over and over—tales to stifle the boredom of standing in a trench at three A.M.
There was no sadder scene in the field than the first sight of a boy returning from R & R. Soon, though, the stories would begin to pour forth and we would all revel in the wonders of Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, Sydney, Manila, Hawaii (mostly married boys), and Singapore—cities in countries that only months before had not even been in the vocabulary of most of us. Several weeks after a boy’s return, the fervor would wane as the combat routine ground on and more recent R & R returnees assumed center stage with fresher material. By the third week back, however, squad mates would commence the ticking of a different R & R countdown clock.
“Last, but far from least, please be advised that the girls are required by law to keep their shot cards up to date. Be sure you check, gentlemen. The mama-san will help you make sure. It will save you a lot of suffering after you get back in country.”
Venereal disease.
The clap, as it was called, gestated about thirty days after contact. It normally arrived in the form of an involuntary drip and painful urination. Those with symptoms would march up to see the corpsman and get a penicillin shot—some quietly, sheepishly feeling that God had given them their just reward for the first intimate encounter with a woman of their young lives.
For others, it was a rite of passage that let flow again the teenage bravado as the stories of the week’s liaisons were validated. I recall the sight of Sal Martucci coming back down from the doc’s bunker after his shot in the ass. He was struggling to pull up his pants with his left hand while stabbing his right fist jubilantly at the sky. A rite of passage indeed. Those fortunate enough to escape the clap in all likelihood contracted crabs or some other discomfort