A GREEN LIEUTENANT A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
		Swann pulled off the shiny black helmet liner revealing his blonde hair, all of it cut shorter than the greens at Augusta. “This is long hair. I don’t want to see any of you with hair longer than mine. It makes me look bad when troops don’t respond to my leadership and standards. And don’t let me catch you in fatigues with ropes and ripcords (basic training lingo for loose threads) hanging from the seams. Get your Zippos out and burn ‘em off before I see your sorry ass standing in front of me on Monday’s inspection. And no damn National Guard mind set on those fatigues. They better be starched stiff as boards when you fall out and I don’t want to see any groedy (grow dee) shit on the back of your belt buckles. Speaking of belt buckles, you can’t get your brass shiny with all that damn varnish on it. Get your sister’s nail polish remover out and get it off, boil it off or shine it off with Brasso. I don’t give a rat’s ass how you do it. You just do it!  Got that? Now as I look out here, I see all you rotsy (ROTC) pukes and you think you’re gonna keep one set of boots spit shined and nice for display purposes only and wear the others. Well I got news for you, you’re gonna keep both pair spit shined and you’re gonna break both pair in ‘cause that’s why Uncle Sugar gave you two pair of boots.”  We looked at each other, wondering where this Neanderthal had come from. Swann tucked his clipboard under his arm as if it were a riding crop. “I expect you to have your ass ready to go at oh dark early tomorrow cause we’re gonna start out with some PT to get you douche bags tough.” He paused for effect, “I can’t stand, candy ass, support type pukes. If you’re going to be in the same army with me, you’re gonna look like an officer and act like an officer.”  Our class president, First Lieutenant Frank Sobol, was introduced. He fell into the job by virtue of his date of rank. He mounted the steps to the stage as the DOI and his junta departed. Sobol looked as out of place as mud flaps on a Porsche Targa. He had a large head and a pudgy, Pillsbury Doughboy body. His voice was high pitched, which, when coupled with his horn rim glasses, led you to believe he was either a poet or a college professor. It turned out that Daddy Sobes had been commissioned back in ‘63 and had managed to put off his active duty time by completing his masters degree and then his PHD at Stanford.He stood in front and stared out at us and gulped a breath of air. His eyes bulged, their size magnified by the Coke-bottle lenses in his glasses. “Guys I don’t know how I got selected for this. I don’t have any more idea of what this is all about than you do, but we’re going to have to stick together to get through it. I got hauled in front of the DOI earlier this morning and told what to expect. The first five weeks are going to be like basic training all over again. They’re going to be looking for people to pick on and tear apart. If I were you I’d do as they tell you. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get a haircut as soon as I get out of here. I think we’re all going to have to play the game to survive. That’s all I know for now.”  If there was an inspiring line in his speech, I missed it, but Sobes had a comforting presence if for no other reason that you could look at him and say to yourself, “If that son of bitch can make it through this, surely I can.” Next