tagRomanceNo Good Deed Goes Unpunished

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished


This is fiction, not reality. Like reading HG Wells, or Dickens, or even Homer and no I don't mean Simpson, I mean Homer as in the Iliad, so suspend credulity, because if this was a library you would be in the FICTION section.


How to start this? My parents were just killed in an auto accident and I was upset. So I joined that Army. Pretty straight forward shit so far.

On May 1, 1970, as part of Operation Menu, elements of the 3rd Brigade, First Cavalry Division decided it was a beautiful day to go fishing, so we went fishing. Ok we were involved in Operation Fishhook where we did a little work in Cambodia. Now the operation was going great and we were doing our thing against a very tough NVA division. These were regulars, tough, disciplined and not afraid to fight. They were battle hardened and most of us were not, but it does not take long to get that way in the Nam.

While we were "airmobile" it also means that we were in the middle of the shit and no way out except by air; so we fought. We ended up in some shit hole they called a village and civilians were everywhere and well I did something really stupid, I got my picture taken with a little kid, about four or five. It was the height of stupidity but I did it anyway, I jumped up in the middle of a fucking firefight and grabbed her and got her out of the area. I mean I was in the middle of one hell of a gun fight and I was ready to piss and shit all over myself I was so scared, except I was carrying this kid that ended up in the middle of the shit and trying to shoot as I ran toward my lines, if you could call a squad a line. Someone got a picture of me with this ball of fire behind me, it looked a lot closer than it really was, and a 7.62 mm tracer round from an AK47 came ripping through my side. Yes we know it was an AK because by then we were using the .223's and the NVA used green tracers and we used red. So in the picture you saw this green light passing through my side, a red ball of fire behind me and I got this kid in my arms. It was one hell of a picture and this little kid was looking at me with this "you saved me puppy dog look." It was lucky it was a tracer, and it only grazed me, I still have a scar from the burn, but it was a cool picture.

You know how kids don't understand shit. I got the kid to safety and she stayed with me during the entire firefight, I even put my vest on her and gave her my steel pot to wear. She did look cute and there is a picture of that too. Her sitting in my lap as I look up over a damn log in a hole and doing my best to play Audie Murphy until we got enough help so I could give her to the medics who took her to a Catholic Hospital for the locals and gave me a quick patch job, and because my shift was not yet over so I did not get to go home. [We call that black humor.] Damn, it would be my second Purple Heart. That is one decoration no one fucking wants. What I did not think about until later was who the fuck was the photographer, why didn't I see him and when did he fucking take the pictures?

We kept fighting for the next eight hours until the gun ships came in and Puff the Magic Dragon came in to raining smoke and fire on the NVA. You really had to see Puff to believe it. They did not have the 105 cannon on it yet, but this lumbering C130 that flew only counter clockwise and in a slow arc was like it was a real dragon. As it opened up with those two 20 mm Vulcan 6 barrel Gatling canons that shot 6,000 rounds a minute, all you saw was the smoke and the red tracers forming a line you could almost walk on. If you have ever seen a .50 caliber machine gun round, well add another 10 to it because you are talking a .60 caliber for this bad boy. It was pared with one Bofors 40 mm anti-aircraft autocannon that was not used to shoot at aircraft, but some dumb assholes on the ground that made the mistake of being under it and not being American. The 40 mm projectile was a 2 pound exploding messenger of death, and it was pumping out shells at the rate of 120 of them a minute. It was smoke and fire and it rained death on everything below it. It was a true weapons platform and it could fly around up there for five or six hours on end. And when Puff was firing everything at once you had all this hot brass raining down on you too. It had no defenses, unless you consider that the best defense is a good offense. When Puff showed up you had mixed feelings. The first was you were damn glad it was your gun ship but the second was, damn we are in some deep shit, they sent Puff out for us. In our case it was both.

Well the picture ended up in a few magazines and people saw it. Now I was in trouble, big trouble. I wanted a career in the Army, maybe getting a commission and spending the rest of my life being taken care of, or getting killed. But as of now the best I got was getting into the Instant NCO program and I became a Staff Sergeant pretty damn quick; it was usually a ticket to a body bag, instant NCO's were the first to die in combat. Not going to happen to me boys and girls; famous last words.

So we are still on the operation, the kid is gone, and we are someplace else in Cambodia, and I get hit hard, real hard, ticket home, third Purple Heart and I had actually extended my tour to say in Nam, because I am a real dumb ass. After all, the NVA know the ground, especially after all the years of war, and they sight us in pretty good. There is something inherently dumb about being someplace where no one looks like you and we get to wear uniforms that let the locals figure out we are not them. We might as well have been wearing bright red coats with white belts forming an X over our chests. I am wearing none of that, but round eyes and GI issue clothes mean: "Shoot at me." So I end up with lots of holes in me, and my blood in their mud; and I am in very deep shit. Don't believe what you read about morphine, it does not work all that well. A medic stabilizes me and a bunch more like me and then it is a nice flight in a chopper that is dodging ground fire, and sometimes not, to a field hospital; and then one in Saigon and from there, Germany. Back in the day all of us wounded ended up in Germany or the Philippines first then state side.

Now people are looking for me and they are pissed. The picture seems to be a problem, some relatives see me and reports are made, congressmen are contacted. I am talked at, not with, by people with more stripes than a Zebra. Keep my fucking mouth shut, were my orders and that is it in a nut shell. Don't die, hang in there, but keep my fucking mouth shut.

Four months later I was standing in front of the Secretary of Defense and someone was pinning the Distinguished Service Cross on me and I was promoted to Sergeant First Class, which is three stripes up and two rockers under. That pay grade is E-7; there are only nine enlisted pay grades. When that was over I was surrounded by a shit load of Command Sergeants Major, that would be E-9, three up and three down, a star in the middle with a wreath around each side of the star. A Sergeant Major is an enlisted man's general and they let you know it if you ever forget. They were all wearing CIB's and that would be Combat Infantryman's Badges but the part that was scary was they had two stars on the damn things. Shit these guys went through WW2, Korea and now the Nam; they were some fucking bad ass dudes. Each had a Purple Heart with stars on them, DSC's, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars with V devices [V means Valor as in got it in combat], and every other decoration you can imagine, and one wore a ribbon with stars on a field of blue. Shit the Medal of Honor, I came to attention and saluted when I saw it, as I was required to do; how the hell did I miss that when I was with the Secretary of Defense? I knew I was being ambushed, and by the best too, I was not sure when the shooting was going to start but there was no way to get out of this one, I was just along for the ride. I followed along as they led me from location to location in the Pentagon. I was still moving slow but they never let me stop.

I got a new picture and now I was given a Grey ID Card. It was not supposed to be grey. They were all glad handing me until we got into this one special little room. I called it the attitude readjustment room.

"You are at attention Sergeant. Listen you little fucking jerk, you fucked with our Army, you asshole. Yes you are a fucking hero, who the hell isn't, but god damn it you are out of here as of today. You are going to keep your fucking mouth shut forever. Do you read me young SFC?"

My only response was "Yes Sergeant Major!" in a very loud and clear voice as I now moved to and then stood at the ridged, but comfortable, position of attention; feet at a 45 degree angle, head and eyes forward, fingers slightly cupped and my thumbs alone the seam of my trousers. Hell I had so many people yelling at me I was not sure who I was agreeing with, but agree I would.

It was the picture, that damn picture. Yes it got me promoted to SFC, and it probably got me the DSC when what I did was hardly worth an Army Commendation Medal with a V device, and it got me recognized. You see, I was only sixteen years old at the time it was taken. I had used the birth certificate of an older brother that died shortly after birth to get into the Army and I was only fifteen then. Now it got me kicked out, but because of the photo and the publicity, and my wounds, I got a disability retirement and a 100% disability rating because I was shot up and I was gone. I was lucky I did not get a "void enlistment," but now I had a pension at sixteen. There was hell to pay and I was in hell. So the military followed the tried and true rule, "up and out," and that is what they did to me.

How do you go back to high school and finish your sophomore, junior and senior years when you have been banging whores in Saigon, and spent over a year playing soldier in the mud and blood? You don't. I was a prisoner waiting for a prison. I was an emancipated youth by this time so who would take me in, who would teach me something more than shooting at someone who pissed you off. And where could I get some pussy, hell I was sixteen.

Actually, I never got rid of my taste for a good Saigon whore and for the next fifty plus years I would get my fill. The slut would be dressed in nylons and garters, hot pants, and vest while wearing sexy boots, and getting my cock sucked, watching her sit on my cock and after a reasonable amount of discussion and negotiations, get them to agree that even if their husband was the only one to get their ass, for a few dollars they would share it with me. And Velcro, everything would come off with a pull. Ain't progress grand?

After what I call my attitude readjustment conference things mellowed out in that room for the remainder of my active duty military career, about two more hours. Actually you are out at midnight but no one was going to wait around for that. I told them I loved the Army and wanted to stay, but that was a "no go." I got my one and only drink in the United States at that meeting; and I gave the toast. "Infantry, Queen of Battle," and they were satisfied with that, since they were all Infantry and wore the insignia. I could hardly keep the damn liquor down because it burned like hell. That was my last drink for many years.

I was given some Levis and a shirt and a few other items and I was a civilian; almost. Looks like the Sergeants Major took a liking to me and I was given a place to stay and a military school to attend; and I fit right in. Except at this school I did not have to wear pretend decorations, I wore the real thing, which also kept me out of the hazing route. Even the teachers, every one a combat veteran, treated me with a certain amount of respect. Hell all I ever did was get shot at, and hit, three times, and one was only a scratch.

I finished High School at a military academy in Georgia in two years and then I was told that a military college was in my future but not a commission; or I could go to a regular civilian college. I went for the military one but I am not supposed to say the name of the college but its initials are VMI. I even did OCS but that was just for drill, I was not someone they wanted in the Army or Navy, or Air Force or even the Marines. But the Army takes care of its own; and I was now obviously adopted.

It was also during this time that I went to a restaurant in a China Town area on a trip to New York but it was not Chinese, it ended up being a Vietnamese restaurant. Anyway the husband and wife were arguing back and forth and I just interrupted and told them what I wanted, I was tired of waiting. They stopped and just stared at me; then they asked me a few questions about my order and I responded. Then I stopped. I had been talking to them in Vietnamese. I had not even thought about it, it just happened. From that time on I would go in and eat at a Vietnamese restaurant whenever I had the chance. The language was second nature to me; must have had something to do with learning it at a young age; remember I was only fifteen when I went to Nam.

So now I am twenty two and six years have passed and I got a job in the defense industry back home in California and by that time the war was over. Ok that war is over and they will not let me play in any other wars; its women and children first, then they would ask for me. I had a degree in engineering and worked on military projects. For some reason I had a pretty high security clearance despite my little error in taking my dead brothers birth certificate and using it to enlist at fifteen; but I was depressed, that was my excuse, parents killed and I was depressed, so I enlisted. Now that is a military career. In the Army at fifteen, in a war for over a year, get the DSC, three Purple Hearts, the CIB, a few other ones, and get retired as an E-7 SFC at sixteen; and all because I did something stupid, like picking up a kid in a war zone instead of keeping my dumb ass down. Hell, they are not legally allowed to send you even close to a war zone unless you are eighteen. Damn that was a short career. Well that was one good deed that did not go unpunished.

So at twenty two years of age I had my degree and a good job. I was in Southern California so I bought a house with two bedrooms in Redondo Beach. As luck would have it the place next door became available and I bought it too. The guy at the bank was in Korea, First Cav., just like me, so he approved both loans. So now I had a real nice size piece of property and I went on a building frenzy and ended up with four bedrooms plus the master bedroom. I also added a pool and a swim lane and a Jacuzzi. I left the second house alone and rented it but the back yard was the size of a postage stamp, I used most of it for a pool and a few other things. This is where I wanted to stay. I did not worry about any property line because I built where I wanted to, I owned it all.

The place was too big for just me now but I would have a family and we would fill the place with kids. Now I am twenty four and my building phase is over, now it is the living phase.

But I needed help. I went down to the Vietnamese center to see if there was someone who would be a live in house keeper and the older the better. I seemed to spend a lot of time at Vietnamese centers and locations. I sort of grew up into adult hood there in Vietnam. There was a lot of discussion going on and I was told they would find someone for me to talk too. So they found me a nice older woman about one hundred and fifty, ok she looked that old. She was nice and I moved her in to keep the place clean. I called her "bà," which is sort of my way of screwing up the word grandmother, or old woman, without identifying which side of the family she is from. She would call me "cháu," which means grandson, but a very young boy-grandson. She always smiled when she said it and I knew that we had a connection. She even did some cooking too. I had developed a taste for Vietnamese food, except 100 day old egg, or sometimes it is called 1,000 day old egg. If it is more than a few minutes old I don't eat it. I hated that and just would not get into an egg buried in the ground for 100 days and then you get to eat the rotten dead duck inside. And the smell of that thing, I am never, never, never going to eat it again; way too salty too.

I spent as much time on a military base retired as I did off of them. I shopped at them, got my medical on them, they were part of my home life. Fort MacArthur, Long Beach Navy Station, the U.S.S. Repose hospital ship, even the Los Angeles Air Force Base in El Segundo. I was home with the military.

During this time I did the dating thing, I was in demand. Employed, single and had a home. The first one I fell for was Rita. By then I was twenty six and I mean she was everything a boy could want. She was a twenty two years old, tall, red hair, with DD tits, a waist you could put your hands around, long legs and a knack for giving the best damn blowjobs this side of Saigon. I banged her like a drum until I could hardly move and neither of us could even get out of bed we were both so sore. After six months we set a date.

Bà told me "no good cháu, no good." Now if I wrote it in Vietnamese you would not be able to read it so I am using English but we used Vietnamese when we spoke. She kept telling me "no" but I was bound to screw up my life on my own.

One day I got an envelope with pictures in it; I did not like them. They were four by five glossy prints, twenty or thirty of them. Back then there was no such thing as digital prints or e-mail.

I went to see Rita at her parent's house and we had a very frank discussion. I wanted my engagement ring back, things were not going to work out, we should both move on. Her mother and father were incensed; Rita was incensed. "Rita are we supposed to be exclusive?" I asked. She agreed we were. "Who is this Rita?" I asked as I produced a picture that showed her with a man who was definitely not me. Standard shit was the answer. Just a friend, nothing happened, just happened to meet and say hello, only met him once. Where did I get this? It was standard stuff. Are you following me? I never answered a question. Daddy was getting mad that I was questioning his daughter.

Then I showed her another picture of her with a different man and the same answer. "Rita looking at the clothes they are wearing you will agree that they were taken at different times?" was my next question as I showed her two more pictures of her with the same men. Of course she agreed. "So you met them more than once, didn't you?" again there was some agreement, which was definitely different than we "only met one time."

I just tossed the remaining pictures on the table with her entire family sitting there looking at pictures of their daughter/sister getting double fucked by the same two guys. Doggy, blow jobs, anal, she did it all and I gave them a picture of a good representation of each. Rita was in shock, and when I said "May I have my grandmothers engagement ring back please" while still in a trance she took it off and handed it to me. I walked out and never talked to her again and never told anyone why we broke up. If they asked I just said "we decided it would be better to move on." But I knew that the guys would talk and she would talk, and her girlfriends would talk, and her parents would talk and soon everyone would know, but not from me. I just wanted out and I got out. Don't get me wrong here, I like a woman with a good sexual appetite, and even a good whore once in a while, but not when they are engaged to be married to me. I don't share my pussy, ever.

I never did find out who sent me the pictures but I was glad I got them. It got very strange with anyone I was getting to close too. I would get a picture or a cassette recording or something that would show me that I was getting to close to someone I should not be getting close to. I never got engaged again, I just moved away from that person, as if it was nothing at all, just moving on. No confrontation, just called less frequently, fewer dates, until it was a thing of the past.

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bycantbuymy© 20 comments/ 34911 views/ 37 favorites

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