Message:

<p>[QUOTE=&quot;Honolulu Dick, post: 975355, member: 24745&quot;]This thread has been lifeless for the past few days --- time to stimulate it with another MPC war story.&nbsp; Something akin to MPC CPR.</p><p><br /></p><p>After months in the field &quot;neutralizing&quot; NVA [North Vietnamese Army] and hard-core VC [Viet Cong] forces, we would be relieved by an ARVN [Army of Vietnam] unit [aka, the good guys]&nbsp; They had the ability to maintain the security that we had established, contend with local VC left-overs and they initiated the nation building programs necessary for pacification [winning hearts and minds].</p><p><br /></p><p>Raggedy, torn and the worst-for-wear, we were airlifted to a base camp located in a secured area for a few weeks of unofficial, in-country R&amp;R.&nbsp; By the very late &#039;60s, tents, stretched over 2x4 frames on raised wooden platforms, had been replaced with permanent buildings built on concrete slabs.&nbsp; Generator plants were in operation, electrical poles raised and buildings were wired.&nbsp; We got to sleep on a steel framed bunk, a roll-up mattress, a pillow [unheard of in the field] and clean sheets [also unheard of in the field].&nbsp; The buildings had overhead fans to stir the otherwise dead, steam laden, tropical air.&nbsp; Best part was that you didn&#039;t have to have your weapon for a bed partner.&nbsp; Only the mess halls and clubs were air conditioned.</p><p><br /></p><p>Naturally, we spent our evenings in the air conditioned club<strike>.&nbsp; The bigger ones had a snack bar where you could get a cheese burger and fries.&nbsp; We gratefully pigged-out on those &quot;real world&quot; goodies.&nbsp; The bars had cold, draft beer that was sold by either the glass or pitcher.&nbsp; By closing time, usually midnight, MPCs that were left laying on the bar became soaked with with spilled beer.&nbsp; The bartenders would scoop up the soggy mess of notes and place them in a wire-screened basket dedicated for this purpose.&nbsp; The mama-sans who cleaned the club were given the additional task of drying and pressing the MPC notes.&nbsp; They would carefully layout the soggy notes on sheets of plywood to let them dry.&nbsp; In the afternoon, after the sun had time to heat them, sand bags were placed on the notes to finish the drying process and press them flat.&nbsp; Two of those tiny mama-sans struggled to lift one partially filled sand bag.&nbsp; </strike></p><p><strike><br /></strike></p><p><strike>When collecting the almost restored notes, the mama-sans would stuff as many as they thought they could get away with into their bras.&nbsp; You could tell by the way they held their rice-straw, conical hats in front of their bust-line that they were trying to hide their suddenly enlarged cleavage.&nbsp; This became a big game, as no one cared about how much they carried off.&nbsp; We knew they would use the extra to buy additional food items to feed their hungry kids.&nbsp; We willingly supported that.&nbsp; In fact, many were the times when I saw broad shouldered, 6-foot plus GIs on their knees sharing C-rations with hungry kids.&nbsp; To a Grunt, hunger is an annoyance.&nbsp; To a Vietnamese child, hunger is a way of life.&nbsp; We always stand at our tallest when we kneel to help a needy child.&nbsp; Anyway, the GI knew he didn&#039;t have to go hungry for very long.&nbsp; Extra C&#039;s were carried on tracked vehicles and the always present choppers.&nbsp; Door-gunners, often wounded Infantrymen, wouldn&#039;t let a brother Grunt go hungry.&nbsp; The Grunt was cheerfully provided enough so that he could keep on keeping on.</strike>[/QUOTE]</p><p><br /></p>

Your name or email address:

Do you already have an account?

• No, create an account now.
• Yes, my password is:
• Forgot your password?

Stay logged in