Weekend Warriors - Part II

Continued from Part I

During the boys' two-week summer camp, Jake nicknamed the platoon 'The Dream Team.' Everybody liked it and the name stuck. For the first few nights, they drank pitchers of beer at a G.I. bar called the Pistol Palace. On the last night at the Palace, Sal initiated an argument with three Marines. The Marines were just passing through the base until they met up with the antagonizing Private Amaral. The First Platoon watched in amusement as the harsh words got heated. Before long, the Marines heard enough. They stood and prepared to beat Sal to death. Suddenly, most of the bar stood. Members of the Dream Team walked out of the poolroom and bathrooms. They approached from every corner of the bar. They looked like cockroaches coming out of the woodwork.

Sal yelled, "Hey jar heads, this isn't very fair… three on one. Why don't we change the odds? How does thirty on three sound?"

The Marines looked around the room, realizing that the big guy wasn't lying. There were at least thirty, all smiling from ear to ear. The three wisely decided against it. They left their full drinks at the table and started toward the door.

Sal, the vicious instigator, had to get the last word in. He screamed, "Remember this, you leather necks! We're the few, the hard… the National Guard!" The Dream Team dispersed, each returning to his cold beer.

Dismissed from the last formation of summer camp, the Dream Team escorted Squad Leader Dan Calis to his car - an old rusty Chevy Impala. His six-year hitch was up. They'd never see him again.

It was time for the 'Big Shoe Dance.' Ten guys jumped onto the hood while the others climbed onto the roof and trunk. Leaping up and down, they rocked the car to a rhythmic motion. The tires bounced off the ground, causing the Impala to dance across the parking lot. As the boys surfed, Dan placed his hands over his face. Then, to top it off, the company commander walked by.

Turning back, the older man asked, "Whose car is that?"

The boys stopped. Everybody looked at each other and shrugged.

All together, they replied, "We don't know!"

He stormed off. Even he didn't want any part of the First Platoon after drill time. Dan said his good-byes and asked Sal and Jake to talk for a minute. Naturally, he assumed they ordered the 'Big Shoe Dance.'

"Boys," he said, grinning, "I expect that you'll carry on tradition? We're 'Weekend Warriors' and there's always some fight to be won!"

Sal and Jake laughed. Dan was talking to the right men.

Weekend drills found the absence of Dan Calis, but not the absence of the usual barracks parties. All the wives, girlfriends, or both were invited.

At one of the better shindigs, Corporal Al Correiro broke out a box of his best cigars. With at least 20 guys savoring the sweet-smelling tobacco, within no time the room was engulfed in smoke. The smoke detectors had finally taken enough and screamed bloody murder. The party animals were rushed out into the stinging cold where they assembled themselves into a sloppy formation. From there, they watched as the Fort Devens Fire Department responded to the scene of the false alarm.

There were two of them. The older fireman looked furious before he took one step into the building. His younger partner, on the other hand, looked like he would have done anything to join in the fun. Jake peered down the ranks and laughed. The boys were swaying back and forth, each trying to remain standing. The alcohol had taken its shaky hold of all of them. It was funny, but it was also too damn cold to be standing around for no reason. Venting their anger, the Dream Team decided to serenade the firemen with a couple of their favorite drinking songs:

"Here's to brother firemen, brother firemen, brother firemen. Here's to brother firemen, who are with us tonight! They eat it, they beat it… they always mistreat it. Here's to brother firemen, who are with us tonight!"

It sounded pretty good, so ignoring the dirty looks from Platoon Sergeant Marchand, the boys jumped right into the next tune.

"Hooray for firemen, hooray for firemen,
they're a camel's ass… hey!
they're a camel's ass… hey!
Hooray for firemen…
Hoooray!!!"

Freezing from the merciless wind and knowing that things were about to really get out of control, Marchand decided to take action. He threw open the front door to barracks #1262. His deep rumble could be heard clearly for miles around.

He evidently spoke to the older fire fighter by answering, "Well, my friend, it's always better to be pissed off than pissed on! And that's what is probably going to happen to you if you don't allow my soldiers in soon!" Strongly warning the stubborn man, he added, "Normally, I can't control them and I can't promise that they…"

After a very brief silence, Marchand opened the door and waved his sheep home. He was laughing. Both firemen were humbly sneaking out the back. "Ok boys," Marchand chuckled, "you're gonna have to move the party elsewhere." He had evidently decided he couldn't beat the boys. Instead, he decided to join them.

There were no arguments.

Surprisingly, the Dream Team was instructed to be back by morning and set loose. Of course, it was off to the Officer's Club, where for the next four hours, the boys drank more than their bellies could hold. When they swallowed their fill, a bus was dispatched to pick up the rowdy group. The driver made Jake laugh. He asked, "Where to, boys?"

Sal slurred, "What's open at this hour?"

With an honest look about him, the man replied, "Anywhere you wish!" Taking the democratic approach, the boys held a vote. Breakfast won by a landslide. To everyone's amazement, the driver keyed his microphone and instructed the person on the other end, "Open the kitchen. We got a pack of hungry soldiers about to lose their minds here."

The response was equally shocking. In a happy voice, the stranger asked, "How do omelets sound?" From the loud cheers within the bus, the man needed to hear no more.

Sal, Jake and the boys ate as fast as their new friend could cook. On the brink of explosion, they finally thanked the cook and boarded the bus that was waiting. Jake stumbled into the darkness of the barracks, located an empty bunk and claimed it as his own. Within seconds, the world blacked out.

For the next two years, there were either gallons of booze to be consumed, hilarious pranks to be played or vicious fights to be won.

Then, on one muggy August night, they got the dreaded call. The 114th Infantry Company was activated for a one year tour in Vietnam. Out of 120 soldiers, Weekend Warriors' Sal Amaral and Jacob Evans were selected to train in long range patrolling. They were chosen to be scouts, the eyes and ears of the Army located behind enemy lines. On one hand, it was an incredible compliment. On the other, it felt like a death sentence. They began at once and it wasn't the usual Army training. It was serious, dead serious.

On the night they were scheduled to ship out to the jungle, Sal challenged Jake for the first time. "I was told that one mile west of this hangar, there's a bowling alley open 24 hours. Ten bucks says that I smoke you, gutterball?"

Jake said nothing, but accepted the wager with a look of fire burning in his eyes. Sal laughed. The childhood friends always found fun together. The time, the place, or the situation was irrelevant.

With the exception of several intoxicated Marines, the alley was abandoned. The boys rented their shoes and took to the waxed playground. Sal returned with an extremely large pair and an ice-cold beer. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. According to his biological clock, however, it was a perfect time to start drinking. It was an abused benefit of military life. During time off, there was never anything to do on base but drink. Neither Jake nor Sal cared what they ate or drank. The amount certainly didn't matter either. Sal decided to try a Canadian brand. He was determined to experience a little culture, even if it finished off his suffering liver.

Just into their first string, three of the four Marines began heckling the friends. "Weekend Warriors," they joked, "couldn't find the balls to join full-time?"

Without a word being spoken, Sal took out the biggest of the three with two shots. Jake quickly jumped in and the other two went down even easier. Another war had been won. Jake and Sal eventually staggered back to the desolate hangar. Jake was ten dollars richer, Sal was pouting, but together they'd walked away unscathed once again.

Sal grabbed Jake, "When we get back, I think I'm gonna re-up for another six," he announced, "I can't imagine walking away from all this fun."

Jake smiled, but didn't respond. Minutes later, they were airborne, heading for Southeast Asia.

Two months later, a sniper's bullet bore its way into Sal Amaral's rigid spine. He would never have to worry about walking away from anything again. Tragically, he'd never even walk again. From then on, his weekends would be spent enjoying the world from within the confines of a wheelchair. Whatever wars remained for Sal would have to be fought within. Jake was certain that Sal's internal battles would wage far more ferocious than any man his friend ever faced.