Eighteen and already shackled to the damn Navy. Aviation Machinist’s Mate – just a fancy title for a grease monkey stuck babysitting the S3 Viking. That naval aircraft, the beast with the oversized canopy, was supposed to hunt subs. Mostly, it found whales. Big, dumb, unlucky whales. Fresh from a family circus of abuse and bullshit back in the City of Angels, this Navy gig already felt like a goddamn eternity, and I was only just punching my ticket to get properly used up. My uniform told the whole story: dungarees stiff with another man’s sweat and grime, boots laced so tight they felt like a slow punishment crawling up my calves, and an Eisenhower jacket that stank of stale Luckies and choices I was already too tired to regret. That green jersey underneath? Just a brand marking me as another piece of meat for the flight deck’s grinder.
Subic Bay, Philippines. You’d see them first, the women, rattling down the hills in those old WWII buses, painted a sick kind of yellow, groaning like tired whores themselves. Packed tight with the valley’s daughters, each one dressed to sell whatever assets she had left, a last-ditch hope painted on her face. All this while the Navy puked out its 5,000 horny bastards onto the shores of that third-world port. A goddamn tidal wave of desperation hitting a coastline already eroded by too much of the same. Every man jack scrambling, clawing his way to dive into the filth, chasing the women they trucked in and lined up like cattle for the slaughter. Nothing noble about it. Just raw, ugly need, thick in the air as the humidity.
Naturally, me and some other poor bastard, an AD, got the shaft. An auxiliary power unit – APU, for short – picked that exact moment to crap out on one of the birds. Always some damn thing, some piece of junk, conspiring to keep you from a stiff drink or a blessed moment’s peace. We didn’t even bother to strip. Kept our civvies on, the scent of cheap freedom and last night’s cologne already fading, and just pulled the dirty, grease-stained coveralls on over the whole mess. Figured we could wrestle this pig in an hour, tops, then beeline for the grime of the town. The plane… it was just another chained-down beast, always demanding its pound of flesh, always hungry for more of your time. We jumped on, ripped open the APU compartment like we were gutting a fish.
The thing slid out on a shelf like a kitchen drawer once you cut the air lines and a couple of bolts. Took two of us to heave the dead bastard out and dump it. Grabbed the new unit, dropped it in, connected everything, and slammed it shut. He jumped in the cockpit, pushed the buttons. I stood out front, gave the moronic hand signals – teapot, finger wiggles. The APU whined, then popped. Air to engine one. Working.
Job done. Another box ticked for Uncle Sam. Washed off the worst of the grime, but you can’t wash off the stink of the whole damn charade. Running off the plank to catch happy hour, a quick salute to the brass, then we ran like hell towards whatever oblivion the town offered. But first, you had to cross the famous “Shit River.” We named it right. A moat of raw sewage, the town’s guts spilled out for everyone to wade through. On hot days, the stink would hit you like a fist, a thousand rotting outhouses. Welcome to paradise, sailor.
Then the kids, same as always. A goddamn gang of them, like piranhas hitting a fresh corpse. Swarming every sailor the second your boots hit the bridge. Hands out, always the hands out. “Please sir, you look very handsome today, sir,” some snot-nosed eight-year-old with a dirt-caked face would chirp, his eyes already calculating the odds. No sweetness to it, not really. Just raw, desperate hunger, sharp as a shiv. They’d be all over you, fearless little bastards, trying to pick you clean before you even smelled the town. You could feel their tiny hands, quick as rats, digging in your pockets, so many of them, so determined, they could slow a six-foot-four frame like mine to a dead halt. Had to practically peel them off, shove them away just to take a goddamn step.
Today, they were a damn frenzy, thicker than flies on a gut wagon. Halfway across that piss-stinking bridge, it hit me, clear as a kick to the skull. I turned to my buddy, the AD, “Jesus Christ,” I said, “this is straight outta some goddamn World War One movie. You know, the newsreels? Those starving kids in France, all rags and big eyes, begging the GIs for a Hershey bar, anything to win ‘em over.” The thought just hung there in the stench, ugly and too damn true.
Then the lightbulb, dim and flickering as it was, went off in my skull. “Bubble gum.” That’s what I’d give ’em. These filthy, piss-yellow foam earplugs I’d been hoarding behind my ears for weeks, reusing ‘em till they were practically part of me. Pulled one off, caked with sweat, grime, God knows what else. Held it out to the scrambling pack. “Who wants some good old American gum?” I yelled.
The alpha brat, the one with the meanest eyes and the quickest hands, snatched it before it even cleared my palm. No “thank you,” no nothing. Just shoved that piece of my filth right into his mouth and bolted like a shot rat. The other little faces, man, they crumpled. Looked like they’d just watched their last hope get snuffed out.
So, what the hell. I reached behind the other ear, pulled off the second piece of crap. “Don’t worry, kids!” I shouted, feeling like some kind of twisted saint. “Uncle Sam’s always got more!” The words were barely out before their little hands were all over me again, fighting for that second grimy prize like dogs over a rotten bone.
The alpha kid was still there as we walked off, gnawing on that plug like it was prime rib. Gave us a look. Maybe it was a thumbs up. Maybe just a kid chewing. Who knows?
Sometimes, yeah, even now, telling this damn story, I get a weird twitch, almost a giggle. I picture those kids, grown now, maybe in their forties and one of them, on a special night, pulls out a dusty little plastic bag. Inside? My goddamn earwax plug, saved like it’s the crown jewels. Takes a little nibble, like it’s fine tobacco, not wanting to share his precious American treasure.
Or maybe it inspired them. That’s a laugh. Inspired them to what? Sign up for this same goddamn circus? Trade their own years, their own sweat, for a shot at ending up like me – old, tired, and knowing damn well the “American dream” always had a taste of shit to it, right from the first bite.
