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floating around the desert for about three months. We discounted it along with all of the other tales that were just as improbable: the female squid captain who was charged with going a bit beyond duty in the mo- rale department, giving blow jobs for five bucks per; the corporal whose wife had sent him an amateur porn mag that turned out to be her smut debut, the neighbor stiffing her from behind; the Arab teenage girl who ran around the port at Jabal Munifah, defying Mohammed, fucking GI’s for free.
But Cash’s blood and screaming and stink brought the Ether Bandit right down into our little ugly world.
     
PFC BROCKNER
After a West-Pac and six months on Okinawa, I re-upped with a guarantee to stay two years on the island. I dated Taro. I loved his yellow skin, his little rice ass, so hard to enter but, once inside, like fucking a wildflower: Seaside Daisy, Cocklebur, Hairy Hon- eysuckle. His parents owned a bar in Kinville, where I drank for free. They considered me a nice American boy who befriended their lonely and forlorn son. I was not a nice American boy. Their son was neither lonely nor forlorn, just queer and closeted. The same deal applies in Japan as the States—you have to keep up straight appearances. Taro and I would occasionally hit the whore- houses with the guys in my platoon, Taro scoring deals with his Japanese. The mamasans and papasans were all Japanese, and the girls were Flips, up from the bars in Olongapo or Angeles City. Taro and I would buy the same girl, go up to her room and drink
beers with her, tell her to make some noise. We’d spank her and talk loud-nasty, pinch her nipples and pull her hair.
He’d never had sex when we met, and it took me six months or more to talk him into ass sex. I started with fingers. I thought he’d never allow my cock in there. And then a navy friend of mine gave me an idea—ether. He’d tried it before with a virgin boy- friend and it worked well—“Open him up when he’s passed out and, sure, he’ll hurt for a few days, but then he’ll be fine.” This navy guy gave me a jar of ether and told me to use a folded-up skivvy shirt. Just dunk it in and cover Taro’s mouth and nose, and within minutes I’d be inside.
     
SERGEANT SAVINE
Cash continued to scream. I tried talking to him, patting his back, telling him to calm the fuck down, calm the fuck down. None of this worked. So I slapped him, I slapped him hard, and he looked at me like he was looking through a sniper scope, and I saw far- away death in his eyes, the bewilderment of pulling the trigger and taking away a life from one thousand yards, turning a human head into pink mist. And he asked me, What the fuck happened, What the fuck happened?
Esmeralda entered the room, and I told her to talk to him while I went downstairs.
Thomas didn’t have enough whores for all of the guys shoved into the basement. Some line platoon grunts and a few platoons of pogues from the 6th Combat Service Support Battalion had shown up, and they were all out of hand, ass-drunk and throwing shit around, carrying the women on their shoulders, making them strip on top of the amps, breaking empty whisky bottles against
the walls and on the deck. I saw my platoon mates across the base- ment, trying to stay out of the mess. If we’d been stateside and there had been more of us, we would’ve been kicking ass on the pogues. Fighting marines hate pogue marines more than they hate Fly Boys or Squids or Army Dogs.
You’re either a fighter or you aren’t. And if you aren’t, then bring me my hot chow, my field showers, my water, my mail, my ammunition, and shut the fuck up. The difference is easy to dis- cern. Pogues always have shiny boots and clean fatigues, and they smell fresh, even in the field, they smell like they just walked out of a goddamn bathhouse in Naha. Fighters are always dirty—maybe it’s been a month or more since the fighter took a shower besides from a canteen, and the fighter doesn’t shave every day,