R&R

In 1968, after five months of war, including the Tet and May Offensives, the deadliest month of combat in the last 80 years*, I needed a break. We all need one now. Last night I found it.

We were always physically worn, scratched, infected, dirty, hot, and smelly. The mental fatigue, however, was worse and more dangerous. The Army recognized this, so R&R, Rest and Recuperation, became the solution: a week's holiday from hell.

We had choices: Bangkok, Thailand; Sydney, Australia; Hong Kong; Hawaii; Tokyo, Japan; Taipei, Taiwan; Singapore; Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia; and Manila are the ones I remember. Hawaii was unofficially reserved for the married guys, who could link up there with family. The other Asian destinations attracted the single guys: cheap booze and working girls.

I wanted escape, English, and round eyes, so I signed up for Australia.

On the flight, I befriended my seatmate, a Special Forces captain. He had a plan: we would go skiing. I did not ski then, but I liked the notion of snow. Not a lot of snow in Vietnam. Another opposite, to which I was attracted.

We spent one night in Sidney. We bought civilian clothes, including a heavy Harris Tweed jacket that I had for 35 years. We cruised the streets in our newfound civilian anonymity, although everyone knew we were not civilians. The haircuts, the American accents, the jungle tans (arms from elbow down, necks and face), the jungle rot (mysterious skin ailments, weeping sores, crusty cankers), and the way we flattened out on the sidewalk when a car backfired, gave us away.

The Australians were magnificent. I will never forget them. We could not buy a beer.

“You got a Sheila, mate?” a guy my age asked me at a bar.

“Just got here today,” I replied.

“Bloody hell, mate, take mine.” And I did. She was tall and thin and beautiful, and I cannot remember her name, but I will always remember her kindness. I sent her perfume from the PX when I got back to Nam. Never heard from her again.

We ate steak, drank more beer, laughed, and picked at our jungle rot, then saw Wayne Newton in concert, long before Las Vegas discovered him. He sang Danke Schön.

We went skiing. I crashed multiple times and entertained the thought of taking a run on the expert slope in the hope of breaking my leg. But Duty called, as did the responsibility of taking care of my boys, although I knew they were in the capable hands of another Lt., who was an exceptional officer and my best friend.

Then, very quickly, it was over. I packed up my memories of that lovely Sheila, of a couple of hangovers, of bad snow, but wonderful cold, and headed back to war.

Rested and recuperated.

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After the events of the last few weeks, I need an R&R as much, if not more, than I needed it in Vietnam. So I consulted with my resident psychiatrists, who hold me and my mental health in high regard.

Collectively, they keep me semi-sane. They work the desk at the gym I frequent. They are wise beyond their 20 years. They give me the greatest gift I could ask for in these contentious times: a rollicking, frolicking laugh. And they never, ever quit. I heartily urge you to get some young spirits in your life. It is very good for the soul.

This time it came as a movie suggestion, posed, first, as a question. “Do you know what a BF is?”

“Best friend?”

“NOOOOOO!” Said with authority, tinged with a shade of generational embarrassment. You need to watch White Chicks!

And so I did.

To my surprise, the movie was made in 2004, before either of my shrinks was born. It starred the Wayans brothers, Shawn and Marlon, and on its release was nominated for five Golden Raspberry Awards, including Worst Picture. I may have watched it back then. I cleaned out that mental file drawer long ago.

But it went on to gross $113.1 million dollars, and today it is considered a cult classic. A sequel is now in the works. Such is the prescience of my therapists.

The plot is ridiculous. You can look it up; I am not going to waste my time explaining it. Watching it was not a waste of time, however. It was sheer, nonsensical, gut-busting fun. It was one stupid, predictable laugh after another. It was R&R.

Thank you, ladies. Hold my calls, I now need to…

Fight the fight!

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* 2,169 American troops died in Vietnam in May of 1968.