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FULL TIME
"Who is the third who always walks beside you?
—T.S. Eliot
The Waste Land
Chapter 1
Blindsided
By 5:00 a.m. I surrendered to the restlessness and slipped from my side of the bed without
waking my wife. I let the shower run hot. Steam filled the room before I stepped under the
stinging pellets that brought me fully awake. I dressed with a well practiced rhythm, tucked the
re-admittance letter into the pocket of a blue blazer and draped the jacket over a shoulder. I slid
keys from the counter, closed my fist around them—choked their metallic warning—then
silently left. It was supposed to be a fine day, this day, the day I would finally return.
I arrived on campus early, hours before an afternoon sun would spoil the softness of the
midsummer morning.
It was July, 2010.
The day may have gone differently had it begun in any building other than Admissions,
instead I stepped into a room filled with my past. Sunlight radiating through a large window
obscured my view of a young male student behind the counter. My eyes narrowed against the
light, creating a flash that lingered for several seconds, and in that shadow space the vague
outlined form of a woman, a specter, eclipsed the face of the student. A prickly heat swelled
from my shoulders into my neck then spread its crimson stain across each side of my face. I had
been here before, long ago.

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Her words, the words she spoke on the day I left campus, floated on an illusory wave. "I
have to notify the draft board when you withdraw. You will be classified 1-A, available for
immediate military service."
The signed admittance letter slipped from my fingers into an outstretched hand and I
remembered surrendering a student I. D. the last time I was here. Outside I found a bench. I sat
with elbows on my knees, hands folded together, pressed into my chin, supporting my face while
I silently wept, blindsided by memories I thought I had escaped.
There are some things better left alone; some trees its best not to shake.
I had memories that fit that category. Unexpectedly I gnawed on the inside of my cheek,
pinching enough to make a hollow on the side of my face, an old nervous In-Country habit.
Vietnam came alive and I remembered . . .
The image of a charred corpse slowly took shape. I saw, for the first time in almost half a
century, contorted limbs seared into grotesque positions. Torched hands reached out in a
renewed gesture of embrace. I smelled the burnt flesh. Of all the things I would remember about
Nam nothing would be more powerful then the smells. The stink of death cut through every
feeling, every memory—every hope.
In the fall of 1966 I landed in Da Nang. For the first three days I languished in a tin roofed
hootch without a floor. The ground was damp and spotted with patches of green mold. The legs
of the cots sank into soft clay. After my first night I learned that anything left on the ground
would be covered with a green wooly growth by morning. The ragged edge of a water stain
ringed the bottom of my sea-bag, as if to say I told you so. My boots were slick with the mold.
The Marine taking up the rack next to me rested one foot on his cot while he laced up his boots.

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In-Country a full day ahead of me and already swaggering like a salty veteran, he shared his
wisdom in no specific order.
—hang your boots over the rafters at night.
—leave your sea-bag on the cot and use it for a pillow.
—chow starts at 0500.
—change your money into MPC.
—they call out orders beginning at 0800."
In those three days it took the Marine Corps to figure out where I belonged, I had plenty of
time to think of the girl I left back home. I lived with her, her twin sister and her father. I slept
on a couch in the living room. I called her Sam, a nickname for sexy girls. Some nights she
would join me. Her father looked the other way. Now I lay alone on a cot, sinking in the muddy
floor of temporary quarters, a hut the Marine Corps called a hootch.
Finally resurrected by orders assigning me to an aviation crash rescue crew with the First
Marine Air Wing at Marble Mountain, I caught a ride on a supply truck, an open deuce and a
half, military slang for the two and a half ton truck. I stood, gripping the side rails of the truck as
we exited Da Nang city through crowded streets, the driver light on the brakes and heavy on the
horn, shouted out a river of obscenities to anyone and anything in our path. Minutes later we
roared down a wide dirt highway lined with rice paddies on each side. Farmers wearing large
conical straw hats sloughed through the fields filled with at least a foot of brown muddy water
fertilized with human excrement. The stench was unforgettable. I didn't know it then but the
smells of Vietnam would remain a part of me forever. I had slipped into a world: ancient, crude
and foreign; it jolted my senses. I felt that I had left civilization, this was not the world of an

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American teenager in the mid 1960's. Stunned by the heat, sights, the cacophonous sounds, and
smells, the reality of where I was silenced me.
I had volunteered for Nam.
After the hot, dusty, ride in back of the open deuce and a half we rumbled through the main
gate of the Marble Mountain air station. The corporal driving the truck slid to a dust raising stop,
almost passing the tin roofed, plywood hootch serving as a headquarters/check-in processing
center. I lowered myself from the truck and surveyed the damage. The dust from the hour long
ride in the open truck painted a thin veneer on the back of my neck and face.
Unwilling to leave my sea bag outside, I pulled the strap onto my shoulder and labored up
the four steps leading to a half screen door. I pushed it open, dumped the sea bag on the deck and
looked over the counter at a pimply faced clerk, a Marine private, sitting behind a large, noisy,
metal military issue fan, completely absorbed with a Playboy magazine. He looked up, folded
the three page center fold back into place, closed the magazine then dropped his eyes to the
picture of the partially clad playboy bunny on the cover. Without making eye contact he
mumbled, "Orders?" keeping any exchange of words to a minimum. It was obvious that my
arrival intruded on any fantasies he was having about Miss October, 1966. I placed my record
jacket on the counter.
He rose, indolent, his long sigh audible above the loud metallic vibrations of the fan. His
open hand dropped onto the thick green folder and he scraped the jacket across the counter,
pulling it toward him. With an exaggerated effort, he unwound the elastic twine from the button
securing the flap. He reached below the counter and rustled through papers.
When his hand came up for air he pushed several forms across the counter: death
notifications, religion, beneficiary choices — my life was worth $10,000.

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The most macabre section included sign posts to identify my body, blank lines where one
catalogues scars, birthmarks, even circumcision status. I chuckled at the last one. I guess if your
big head got blown off they could identify you by your little one. What military genius thought
this shit up? Maybe they should tattoo your service number on it, then, proud, standing smartly
at attention, there would be no mistaking who reported for duty. In my first move of rebellion
against all things military I penciled in N/A, not applicable.
With the final line completed I handed the paper work to the private, once again deep into
the Playboy.
"Says on your orders that you're Crash Crew?"
Another military genius "Yep, private, that's right. Where's my unit?"
"Find hootch 68 or 69, someone should be waiting for you. Pick up your gear first. Supply
is two hootches down this row. Thirteen and a wake up, man you're fucked."
"Thanks for the encouragement— private."
I found supply and picked up: a helmet, an M-14 rifle, ammo, sheets, blanket, foot locker
and mosquito netting.
Hootch 68 sat in a cluster of at least 400 others spread out on the shore of the South China
Sea at the base of the Marble Mountains, about 300 yards from the shore. Rolling sand dunes
sloped to the edge of the sea, blocking any breeze that might have offered relief from
temperatures hovering around 100 degrees.
I looked at my new home. An open door flap rested on a sagging canvas roof. Three steps,
the busted left side of the middle stair resting on the corner of the first step, led up to an ill fitted
screen door overlapping its wooden frame at an odd angle. Sandbag bunkers framed both sides
of the rickety entrance. I dropped my gear before climbing the stairway, unwilling to test the

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structure with more weight than necessary, then reached for the handle on the crooked door and
pulled myself over the ruined middle step.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. Jesus, I don't remember ever feeling heat like the
heat inside this place; it pulled the air out of my lungs. Twelve cots, six to a side, lined the
opposing walls. Combat boots hung from thin supports holding up the canvas roof. Mosquito
nets shrouded the occupied cots; the place looked like a haven for Orks. I thought again about
the couch I had shared with Sam, remembering the tenderness of our nights together. I filled
myself with the memory of the brush of her hair against my face, her smell — then I saw him.
He lay on his back, propped up slightly on an olive green sweat stained pillow. His head rested
on folded hands, a cap covered his eyes, rivulets of sweat ran from the tips of each elbow, adding
to his soaked tee shirt. Dog tags cradled in the hollow of his chest.
Without warning he spoke, moving nothing but his lips, the rest of him a statue.
"You Crash Crew?" he asked.
"Yeah"
"I've been waiting for you, name's Al Rose. I'll take you up to the runway, meet the crew
and get you checked in."
He pushed the cover, the Marine cap, off his face. In the light that filtered through the open
flap I surveyed him. He wore a three day, sandy-haired stubble. Clear blue eyes came into focus
and he flashed a slow tight grin, more of a smirk, before rising with an economy of motion. He
took shape, uncoiling himself, and I got a complete look at him. He wrapped 125 pounds tightly
around a 5'7" frame. Military standards put him a month past needing a haircut. The sweat
stained tee shirt hung over the right side of a thin waist. A 45 pistol attached to an ammo belt
hung at a jaunty angle from the left side of his hips.

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"What's your name new guy?"
"Lance Corporal Farina."
"Man, drop the Lance Corporal bullshit. You got a first name Farina?"
"Ron."
"Where you from?"
"Connecticut."
"We're practically neighbors, kid. I'm from Taunton Mass, South of Boston. Put your shit
on the empty rack in the middle and let's go. It'll be time for chow soon, and Farina?"
"Yeah?"
"Forget just about everything they taught you back in boot, none of that shit will help you
here. And one more thing, Farina."
"What?'
"I'm gonna call you little brother. Man you're one innocent fuck."
I nodded and followed him out of the hootch.
In the months that followed I watched Al and my innocence peeled away. I wanted to be
like him, but without his verve my imitation, fell far short. In camp away from the crash station
on the runway, he bartered with the Vietnamese allowed on base. He traded cigarettes for favors,
setting up rates with packs of Kool cigarettes as standard currency. "Slopes love the menthol," he
said. "One pack will get your laundry done, two will get them to clean honey pots for you, and
three packs might get you a girl if you want to risk having your dick fall off."
He managed to skate almost any mundane detail. I never saw him fill a sand bag, clean a
honey pot or square away anything other than the 45 pistol he carried, his rifle and our rescue
truck. Always in need of a haircut or shave, more often both, he skipped inspections, almost

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always getting away with it. He had a bad habit: off duty he drank, sometimes heavily. On those
days he skirted the border of sobriety. Al had little use for anything military. In less than a year
his enlistment would be over, his tour In-Country finished by June.
He was fearless behind the wheel of a rescue truck. We trusted him.
Sometime, shortly before Christmas, two crew members from air bases further North were
scheduled to rotate back to the states. Their thirteen month tours were closing out. Rather than
randomly order replacements the "higher ups" asked for volunteers during an all hands muster.
We stood at ease: Al and I in the same row, separated by a few spaces. He glanced in my
direction. I understood: going North meant less chicken shit, more danger: an absurd risk/reward
relationship. He stepped forward and I followed his lead.
At dawn the next morning we boarded a CH-46 Sea Night helicopter and lifted off from
Marble Mountain. The early light pierced the heavy morning mist rising from the jungle floor.
We flew over a lush green blanket. I looked down on meandering rivers and mirror-like rice
paddies, blank canvases waiting for the brush of the day's labor. I saw grass hut villages for the
first time. Smoke rose from breakfast fires without any sense of urgency, threading a windless
morning sky. The beauty of the Vietnam countryside surprised me. I'm not sure what I expected,
but what I saw below did not match the chaos of Da Nang city or the hot, treeless, sand covered
air base on the shore of the South China Sea. The Vietnam country side offered a beauty I was
unfamiliar with. Before joining the Corps I had never ventured more than one hundred miles
from home.
The beat of huge twin helicopter rotors and the whine of the engines made conversation
impossible. We continued the flight without conversation. I caught Al staring at me. His eyes
seemed to say what I had only begun to fully understand: we would go separate ways as we flew

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further North. Al flashed a smile of assurance, the same conspiratorial grin he always wore. I
looked away, unable to hold his stare. The monotony of the flight lulled me into a brooding
melancholy. I though about how easily Al had befriended me. I didn't understand the gossamer
bond that had formed between us, the same bond that would hold other young men — boys —
together for thirteen months while they lived side by side In-Country
The helicopter banked sharply, snapping me out of the zone I had wandered into. Moments
later we landed at Phu-Bai, an air base outside the ancient capital of Hue, my destination. Al had
orders to Dong-Ha, a jumping off area for Marines fighting battles close to the DMZ. The
helicopter crew tossed my gear onto the flight deck. Thinking the pilot would shut down to
refuel I grabbed my sea-bag with one hand and the handle of my footlocker with the other,
turning in time to see the helicopter taxi away before lifting off. Al smiled, flipped me off and
mock saluted, then disappeared into the blinding horizon.
Things at Phu-Bai quickly settled into a dull routine; long all night watches on the runway,
building bunkers, keeping rescue trucks and gear in perfect condition ready to respond to
emergencies, always waiting for catastrophe.
In April we went on heightened alert. Word of a coordinated VC offensive against the air
bases north of and including Phu-Bai had everyone on edge. We went on full alert in the final
days of April. On the night of April 28, 1967 somewhere around 2:00 a.m., I felt a rough hand
pushing my shoulder.
"Farina, get up man, you got the last watch."
"Got it, man, I'm up, any coffee?"
"Yeah."
"OK, I'm good."

10. 10
I shrugged off the sleep, took up a seat in front of a screened in window overlooking the
runway, wrapped my hands around a canteen cup of stale black coffee, lit a cigarette and listened
to the radio chatter. The radio came alive with a call to the flight control tower. I caught part of
it.
"Phu-Bai Tower, be advised we are headed in bound with casualties."
The land line rang.
"Crash Crew this is tower. We got medivacs coming in from Dong Ha carrying KIA and
WIA. They got hit pretty hard, ETA around 0500, we need you guys to carry stretchers."
I woke the rest of the crew and we waited for the incoming choppers. We heard them before
we saw them, then they began landing, running down the taxi-way to the unloading zone in front
of the field hospital.
It didn't take long to unload them, the wounded and the KIA's, maybe an hour. In the early
light we carried them. The decks of the choppers were slick with blood. It mingled with exhaust
fumes creating a stench that coated my skin, stuck in my throat, a caustic taste that forced me to
choke back vomit and tears. We unloaded the burnt body of a Marine partially covered by a
poncho. The wash from the helicopters blew the poncho off the stretcher. I was stunned. No
more than a third of the body remained. For a moment we all stood there holding the stretcher,
motionless, frozen by what we saw. A wounded Marine walked through the exhaust, pulled a
blanket from his shoulders and covered the body. We moved the stretcher off to the side and
turned back to the last medivac.
It was over quickly but there was enough carnage to last a lifetime. I returned to the rescue
station with the rest of the crew. We filtered into the room, some stood, while others took up
places on their cots. Someone bent over the table in the middle of the room. He was leaning on

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outstretched arms, rocking slowly, his body swaying. He pushed off from the table then turned to
anyone, no one.
"It was Al."
I heard myself say, "What was Al?"
"The burnt body."
"Other guys from the Dong Ha crew were hit. They were on one of the medivacs. They saw
Al. He got caught on the open flight deck. The truck took a direct hit."
"What the fuck are you saying?"
"Al's gone Farina, I'm sorry man I know you guys were tight."