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    After chow that night, we started looking for something to do. The camp boasted three movie theaters and eight small post exchanges, which stocked stationery, toilet articles, tobacco, candy, ice cream and beer. There was one USO building. King, Walsh, Hall, Heaggley and I found a large club. By nine o’clock, the club was packed. We found a table, and the waitress was busy and happy to see us in good spirits.
    â€œThe last guys through here were depressed and sad. You boys have spirit, like you’re off to save the world,” she said.
    The club wasn’t prepared for this many men and soon ran out of beer. So ended the night.
    The next morning, Colonel Johnson had the whole battalion up and in full field gear for a forced march in the blazing hot California sun.
    â€œLets go, men,” I said as I policed up my section.
    King did the same with the mortar section.
    â€œYou look like shit, Rich,” he said.
    â€œI look like you feel,” I said.
    There were a lot of asses dragging on the march. I did my best to keep my men moving. It was easy for me to keep up. I didn’t have a choice. I had to set the example. But I felt like dragging ass too.
    We were only there for three days. Boredom was the biggest enemy, and soon some of the guys started to talk about going into town. The only problem was we were restricted to the post.
    â€œHow about we do a night training exercise,” I said.
    â€œWhat, like a patrol or something?” King asked.
    I smiled. “Right. We’ll go on patrol and break out of camp.”
    King jumped on the idea and started to egg me on. By that evening, I’d told Walsh and Heaggley to cover for me. If they were asked, I was somewhere on post but they didn’t know where. Shortly after dark I was leading a patrol formation across an open field toward the camp fence. We made our way through the fence and moved down a side road to an intersection, where we found a cabstand.
    We got into three cabs and headed for Vallejo. We called it Valley Jo. After several rounds in the local bars, King and some of the guys from the mortar section wanted to go over to the whorehouse. Most had never been and wanted to take advantage before we shipped out.
    The cabbie knew exactly where to go.
    We pulled up to a large, well-kept three-story Victorian house in the middle of town. Inside, the parlor had a bar and a piano player just like the movies. The girls, all nice-looking, were dressed in lacy underwear and silky robes. They were mingling with a few civilians when we arrived. Our uniforms immediately attracted their attention and they moved toward us like bees toward honey.
    Two or three of the guys got hooked up with girls and went upstairs. I wasn’t interested from the beginning, but I didn’t want the guys to think that I didn’t like women. I just had a girlfriend waiting in Austria.
    I took a seat and got a beer. One of the girls that didn’t get picked came over and sat on the chair. She was nice-looking, but had hard eyes. She rubbed my arm and smiled.
    â€œSo, you going to Korea?”
    I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m not interested.”
    She laughed and kept stroking my arm. “That’s okay. I just want to talk. Are you worried about dying?”
    At this point I didn’t really want to discuss it with a stranger. Before I could answer, I heard a crash upstairs and a lot of yelling. Then one of the mortar men came banging down the stairs. He was mad and kept screaming about how he wanted his money back.
    I got up and met King at the stairs. His shirt was open and his hair a mess, but he couldn’t stop laughing.
    â€œSeems he is hung like a donkey and the ladies don’t want none,” King said.
    â€œGet him out of here before he does something stupid,” I said, trying to shepherd donkey boy to the door.
    King dragged him out. I rounded up the others, none too pleased to leave before they got the full