Part one of three
During the years many people have asked me how I landed the finest possible duty assignment while serving in the Army in Vietnam. After transferring from Saigon to Long Binh (Vietnam military headquarters base) I conned my way into the position of head lifeguard at one of the twelve base swimming pools. I always respond by beginning, “I was extremely lucky…” The chain of extraordinary events began while sitting poolside, catching some rays on my second day in Long Binh.
While popping my second beer, I noticed one of the lifeguards playing cards with three other guys under an umbrella at the far end of the pool. Anytime I saw someone playing cards, I began to salivate (not unlike Pavlov’s dog)—it brought out the gambling demons in me. A few minutes later, the cardplaying group broke up, and two of the players jumped into the pool to cool off. One of the guys swimming by me looked familiar. I couldn’t believe it. I had gone to high school with him! He had a couple of years on me and wasn’t anybody I had hung out with, but I recognized him.
I approached my California “buddy” when he climbed out of the pool. “Hey man, didn’t you go to Redondo High?” I called out from behind him.
He turned and squinted at me, then smiled. “Heck yeah, I know you. I can’t believe this. I forgot your name. I’m Steve St. Charles. I graduated in ’64— unbelievable!” He grinned and shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m Pete Whalon, class of ’67. I saw you swimmin’ and thought you looked familiar. This is far-out, man. Unbelievable is right—what are you guys playin’ down there?” I pointed to the corner where his three buddies had resume d the card game.
“Hearts. You play?” he asked, then waved for me to follow him.
Do I play hearts? is he kidding? Does a stray dog sniff butts? Actually I thought of myself as one of the world’s 10 best hearts players.
“Yeah, I play a little. You guys play for money?” I asked optimistically. He didn’t answer my question.
“This is so cool. I can’t believe it,” he said, shooting me another grin. “Hey dudes,” he called out, pointing at me, “I went to high school with this guy—can you believe that man? Pete, this is Henry, Jake, and Randy.”
I exchanged handshakes with all the card players. “Hey Randy,” I said as I took his hand, “Cody Haskell from C Company said to say hi.”
Randy nodded and continued to play cards. I sat down to watch the game and talk to my fellow Redondo High grad.
During the conversation over the next hour, I learned that Randy O’Toole, the head lifeguard, was leaving Nam in two weeks—his tour of duty was up. Randy informed me that at the time only two lifeguards worked at this pool. The other lifeguard stationed there, Neil Wallace, acted as more of a pool-maintenance man. The head lifeguard had lighter caretaker duties. Since the water stood only four feet deep, there proved little need for rescues. I grew curious, wondering how Randy had gotten such an unbelievable assignment, and who planned to take his place at the pool after he left. To my surprise, Randy informed me that to his knowledge no one had been assigned yet. A slight rush of adrenaline shot through my body.
“Randy, how would I go about trying to get your gig? Whose butt needs to be kissed to be a guard? I’m a strong swimmer and a first-rate hearts player,” I joked.
“You gotta talk to Lieutenant Wicker in Company B; he’s the one who oversees the pool operation. He’s pretty cool for a lifer, but I’m sure he already has somebody in mind. This is a gravy assignment most dudes would kill for, I kid you not!”
Randy didn’t have to tell me that! I thanked him, told Steve I’d see him the next day at the pool, and returned to my buddies Goodman, Harper, and the other guys sitting close by.
“I gotta go, Harp. There’s a job for a lifeguard open here— Randy, the guy in the red trunks, is going back to the world and they need someone to work at the pool. I gotta go see a ‘looey’ in Company B to apply or whatever I need to do—I wonder if he’d take a bribe? Can you believe this?” I got a little too excited at the thought of serving my country poolside. I realized it was a long shot but true gamblers loved “shots.”
“Whalon, you’re full of it?” Mark asked. “You’re assigned to the Comm Center—you ain’t even in Company B, dude. That tub of lard Sergeant Lloyd would never let you transfer here. Dump that hallucination in the honey-pot man.”
Goodman had released his usual dark cloud over my picnic, but it had no effect on my highly motivated state. Even Goodman, the grand master of cynicism, couldn’t suppress the unlikely daydream I harbored— sitting poolside, yelling at some pink-skinned cherry boy to stop running on deck, or explaining to some hospital nurse the finer aspects of the breaststroke. I grew light-headed at the prospect.
“I gotta go get a clean uniform on and trim my stash for my job interview—I can’t believe this, man. Harp, can I borrow your boots?” I begged. “Mine look like crap and you always keep yours spit-shined. Should I get a haircut first?”
Harp nodded affirmatively in my direction. I grabbed my towel and two cans of beer for the walk back to the company. I tended to communicate with lifers better with a slight buzz on. Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.
