US Army Lifeguard–Vietnam, 1969 (Part Two)
“Catch you deadbeats later—gotta go.”
I began with a brisk walk that turned into a slow jog back to the company. I wanted to go see Lieutenant Wicker immediately, before he could give my job to someone else. This would be the perfect fit for the Army—a beach guy from California as head lifeguard at the pool. That was what I’d tell Lieutenant Wicker anyway. I was nervous and energized at the same time.
By the time I reached my room and began putting on my uniform, reality had calmed my mood. I was, unfortunately, a realist at heart. No matter how excited I became about the possibilities in any given situation, little time passed before I viewed the circumstances with cold, hard realism. A million things could go wrong and prevent me from being assigned to the pool for my remaining six months stationed in Vietnam. However, I figured it was worth an effort. I dressed quickly, wet and combed my hair back to make it appear shorter, and headed for Company B.
When I arrived, I saw a weathered, grumpy-looking sergeant at the desk in the CO’s office.
“Excuse me, Sergeant. Is Lieutenant Wicker in?” I asked politely.
“Who wants to know, boy?” He grumbled, playing the tough Army sergeant.
“Randy O’toole told me I needed to talk to him about the lifeguard job down at the pool. Is he in?”
I attempted to be respectful but this hardcore lifer quickly rubbed me the wrong way. I constantly marveled how so many lifers tried to verbally prove how tough they were. I wanted to scream in his wrinkled face, “Get off your lumpy rear and just tell him his next head lifeguard is here, sarge!” But I remained silent.
The sergeant slowly pulled his oversized butt from the chair, exposing a huge gut and nauseating sweat rings on the underarms of his fatigues. He disappeared down a short hall, returning in less than a minute.
“You got two minutes, boy—so make it brief,” he tersely informed me. “He’s down the hall on your left, sunshine.” He plopped back in the weather-beaten chair, making the sound my old “whoopee cushion” often made back in high school.
“Thank you, sergeant. You’ve been very helpful.” I struggled to keep my sarcasm to a minimum, not wanting to jeopardize my chances of getting this fantasy assignment. I walked down the hall to an open door on the left. The lieutenant waved me in and asked me to sit down.
“What can I do for you, private?” Lt. Wicker was all business.
“I visited the pool earlier today, sir,” I began in a humble tone. “I met Randy O’Toole, the lifeguard. He told me that he was going home in a few weeks and maybe there’d be an opening for a new lifeguard. I’m a very good swimmer, sir.” Like an idiot, I made a swimming motion with my arms.
“Do you have a WSI card?” Wicker asked.
Oh man! I didn’t even know what a WSI card was. I later learned it was a Red Cross certification for lifeguarding and instructing. It stood for Water Safety Instructor.
“No sir, but like I said, I am a very good swimmer.”
That’s all the ammo I had. It was like applying for a job as a head chef at a four-star establishment, with your only qualification being that you once ate at a French restaurant. I realized how foolish I must have sounded. At least I had refrained from repeating the juvenile swimming motion with my arms.
“What company are you assigned to?” More trouble—this was going poorly.
“C Company, sir.” What was I doing here? I thought to myself. My earlier “high” began spiraling down the crapper.
“Let’s see,” the lieutenant said in a semi-mocking voice, “no WSI card and you’re not assigned to B Company—not a lot going for you, private.” He politely laughed. “I don’t think this will work but thanks for stopping by. Sorry. I’ve got someone else who has been waiting for this assignment.”
Silently I rose to leave as the lieutenant casually asked me one glorious, life-changing, question. It was one of those rare moments in one’s life when the stars aligned, the seas parted, and a miracle was born.
“Where are you from, private?” he inquired.
“From Redondo Beach, California, sir.” I dejectedly turned to leave.
“No way dude!” Lieutenant Wicker blurted out. “You’re from Redondo—the city in the song ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.’? Are you kiddin’ me, dude? That’s my favorite song! Do you surf?—do you know surfers Dewey Weber or Bing Copeland?—are the broads all tan in Cal, like in the movies?”
His sudden bout of schizophrenia frightened me for a moment. Wicker now acted like a schoolyard kid talking to his favorite sports hero. The words “Redondo Beach, California” had mystically transformed him from a no-nonsense second lieutenant into a star struck schoolgirl meeting Elvis Presley for the first time. Incredibly weird.
He continued without a response. “Have you ever surfed Surf City, Huntington Beach? How ’bout Malibu?” The lieutenant grew more animated as he talked. “I’m moving to California as soon as I get out of the Army—it’s twitchin’ cool there—hey, maybe I can visit you in Redondo when I get out?” he said, slightly hyperventilating.
