nmolinaropost
The Dinner Party and the Moon Landing
An account of a dinner party and an event forty years prior.
Carl Fiorelli enjoys his golden years. Happily married for over forty years and still fully employed at something he rather likes, he is optimistic and enthusiastic about each day's adventures in general. It has all worked out quite well, all in all. At times, he has thought his life nearly perfect: Love, family, health, adventures, wonder. He keeps the travails of the past distant and directs his focus where he likes to keep it. "Really somethin'", he thinks as he considers it all.
He and his wife enjoy a circle of friends each of whom enjoys good conversation, good food, good wine, and plenty of laughter, just as they do. The group of friends pulled together one of those spur of the moment dinners this particular Saturday evening. Carl got a call from Mark in the afternoon, and without a bit of hesitation, accepted the dinner invitation for that evening.
"Hey Carl, I know this is last minute, but if you two . . ."
"We'll be there, Mark. What time, what do we bring?"
Mark laughed, though he was not surprised. The group knows the Fiorellis are usually amenable to unplanned excursions and other events. They are quite comfortable with spontaneity and especially appreciated this invitation. There are some really good cooks in the group, who love to entertain. Mark is especially skillful and creative. He is also fearless, and he and his wife, Donna, put together complex meals with confidence. Being a couple of foodies themselves, the Fiorellis always anticipate an excellent evening at these gatherings.
Nearly the entire group was there, the preliminaries out on the deck were filled with the usual good banter and good spirits. Mark and Donna laid out the best quality cheese, olives, forced meats and cocktails. It seemed that everyone was in good form this night. Some of the stories were side-splitting and the teasing brought witty and effective rejoinders. Inside the house, the aromas of the main courses (always more than one item) and the side dishes foretold of flavors they would soon enjoy: garlic, rosemary, sage, pepper, olive oil.
At the dinner table, the spread met the top of the group's standards. the pork roast and ribs and chicken and grilled vegies smelled great, looked great, and were accompanied by excellent wine. The evening was well on its way to being one of those you talk about later. Carl was in a good groove, especially happy and quite ready for what the evening offered.
He was seated down at one end of the table studying the food and savoring the sight and aroma, when he overheard Mark down at the far end of the table to his right start up what would likely be a go-round the table question of "where were you on this day and what were you doing?"
"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Mark asked. "Forty years. I remember it so well."
Carl quickly sought to engage a friend to his left in what he hoped would be a conversation that would occur separate and apart from that which was starting up at the opposite end. He hoped interest would die out before it got to him. He leaned in a bit to help hold his friend's attention and keep the conversation as compelling as possible. He thought he had dodged it successfully, as he detected some tangential topics arise down Mark's way. It seemed that chatter had become more general and Mark's end of the table seemed to have moved on to other topics. Carl relaxed and let his own conversation taper down.
"How 'bout you, Carl? Where were you when they landed on the moon?" Mark asked. Carl stiffened just slightly and brought his napkin to his mouth to gain a pause that would not look like hesitation or reluctance. He was trying to frame as brief a response as possible and move the question onto another person.
SP5 Carl Fiorelli adjusted his pack again to move it off the raw spot on his shoulder. Each heavy breath felt as though he were taking in razor blades along with incredibly wet, pungent, gritty air. He had reached that point of exhaustion and fear where giving up and collapsing on the ground could be an option. He thought he was close to that more than once on this patrol, going out and now coming back in. He had experienced similar resignation on other patrols, somewhat like runners or triathaletes who "hit the wall." He worked to force his focus on his immediate surroundings and the need for taking that slow, cautious step and one more slow, cautious step and one more slow, cautious step and one more slow, cautious step, a means of locomotion far more draining than walking briskly.
No part of his body was without irritation or sweat or stink. The air seemed to hum and pulse with heat shimmer. The grit, along with the constant sweat and humidity, formed what felt like a layer of sandpaper under his fatigues that chafed parts of his body. No amount of water from his canteen could slack the dryness and thirst. And anyway, he could not have managed to walk and drink at the same time without falling over. His need to scan, observe, react and signal obviated any opportunity to drink without hunkering down behind cover, but either the entire patrol stops and drinks or no one does. So, he did not allow himself to think of his thirst, never a good thing because that would steal away focus from where it needed to be. He worked to block his olfactory senses as well to keep the unique odor of the vegetation outside the perimeter out of his mind, an odor something like fermentation. That odor caused him some discomfort, mainly because it brought into focus where he was and in what circumstances.
And yet, at this moment, walking fourth in this single-file, spaced about five yards apart, neither on point, nor at the rear, he was better off than he had been. He tried to put himself into a rhythm and cadence of movement he needed to take hold of his consciousness, but that was difficult while walking slowly, cautiously, alertly. He had to scan, interpret, analyze, and be ready to signal or drop or fire his weapon or all of it at once. It is the kind of forced mental concentration that drains energy the way a battery drains energy when it is discharging. However, now at least he did not have to set a direction for himself or others. He had been on point earlier while crossing a large clearing, where the patrol had reformed and spread out so that they were not single-file. The stress from having no one in front of him or to the side of him earlier while walking point and the hours of moving slowly with the heavy load in the unendurable heat and oppressive humidity had worn him down, as it had the others.
It would be at least an interminable milenium or more before this patrol would reach the area just outside the perimeter of the base where everyone felt a larger measure of security. It was not dense with brush or trees, and the best route back to the perimeter would be easy to find. Beyond the edge of this area, closer to the perimeter, young Montagnard women would be waiting with pineapples on stalks to sell to thirsty, sweating G.I.s for one dollar each. They peeled them with machetes, leaving the stalk so that the G.I.s could eat them like a drumstick, which they did ravenously for the juice and sugar. Montagnard men were close at hand and prominently in view to guard against any ugly behavior. However, he would not let himself think of that just now.
Somehow, Fiorelli was missing that gene that gives normal beings a sense of direction. Everyone knew him as a bright guy, well read, a deep thinker, highly educated, but incapable of finding his way down a narrow hallway with a map. In fact, he was inept at map reading, mostly owing to his being directionally challenged, as already noted, but in addition to that, he was color deficient so that shades of brown and green and gray and red blended to become nearly indistinguishable–not an asset when reading and interpreting a topographic map. Inside the perimeter he had spent his first couple of weeks having to find his assigned hooch by trial and error each day because he just could not remember what should have been familiar markers and all the hooches and all the rows looked the same to him.
He considered himself as lacking some of the essential, natural qualities of a good soldier, and therefore, hopelessly ill–equipped for such a role. And yet, most considered him an adequate, if not outstanding soldier. Although he had demonstrated that he could not lead a unit across terrain with heavy cover or even in some clearings, he was not thought to be a burden on patrol, as some were. All in all, his fellow soldiers were comfortable in relying on him to be an asset when needed. He never shirked or dodged. He also never volunteered. This made him prized as "not a fuckup", not one who would get you killed by total ineptness or carelessness or bravado. He followed orders and did his job. Non-commissioned officers knew he would comply with orders without hesitation. They also knew not to give him a leadership role out in the field, nor to let him get separated from the rest of the patrol; he would never find his way back.
His low tolerance for heat and humidity and his inability to navigate with certainty or at all added to his stress on long patrols that crossed into hot spots where the V.C. or NVA were known to have been active. He had at times considered the irony of his circumstances in this army unit in Vietnam, the Fourth Infantry Division. Trained as a clerk and filling that role for his first two years of a three-year enlistment, he had little experience in field operations, other than some winter maneuvers in Germany before his arrival "in country."
"I'm supposed to be a fucking clerk, y' know?" he would ponder. "Why do I get picked for these patrols when there are well trained infantryman here?" It was as unanswerable as it was irrelevant. He was in the Army, and going out on patrol was not an optional activity, and no one was likely to consider his preferences regarding this issue.
Somehow, again, he had managed to remain vertical throughout another patrol, except for those times when the guy on point or someone else signaled to drop, at which point sphincter muscles slammed shut, respiration raced, and blood vessels constricted within each man in the patrol while everyone scanned and listened as they got into the lowest profile they could manage.
As they approached familiar terrain, Dragon Mountain, the highest point around Camp Halloway, came into sight. Like a pack of barn-sour horses anxious for the stable, the group's pace picked up, respiration became easier, muscles that had been tense for prolonged periods relaxed a bit. Glances among the men became less strained and some exchanged knowing nods. Fiorelli began to believe that he might not collapse, that perhaps he had once again made it through the wall, and that he might be nearing the end of one more patrol still ambulatory under his own power and with the hope that he could avoid others; after all, he was supposed to be a fucking clerk, y' know?
What he and the other members of the patrol wanted more than anything upon returning to the staging area from which they had departed so many hours earlier was to simply drop everything and plunge into icy water and remain immobile for hours. That was a primal, compelling fantasy, of course. Allowing only a moment or two to finish the water remaining in the canteens and gulp down as much more as they could from spigots around the area, the men had to dissasemble, clean and store gear, check weapons back in, debrief before dismissal. This time, while thus engaged, they were hearing the buzz about the moon landing; it had occured while they were out on patrol, and of course, it had been completely out of mind during it.
"Neil Armstrong . . . gonna walk on that fuckin' moon, Man . . . tomorrow 'sposed to be. Yeah, Buzz Aldrin, Man . . . what a trip, huh? Un-fuckin' believable, Man. We did it."
Fiorelli managed to perform all the post patrol duties for which he was responsible and now he sat slumped against the corrugated tin of a hooch, minus the M-16, the pack, the steel pot. Knees raised nearly to his chest, elbows on his knees, forehead in his hands, sweat dripping off of him, even though he had mopped up several times, he started to feel the relief that normally followed the return from patrol. His breathing had steadied now. In addition to the relief, he felt some vague sense almost of accomplishment. He had performed well enough again, done his job, fulfilled the role he had been assigned without hindering the mission and he was off the hook for the time being. it would be unlikely that he would be selected for another patrol for a couple of weeks or more, if he were lucky. He could reflect a bit on the moon landing and feel some pride in it. In a dozen hours or so, we would have one of our own walking on its surface.
"Somethin' ain't it?" a buddy said to him.
"Yeah, really somethin'," he responded.
“How ‘bout you, Carl?" Mark asked. "Where were you when they landed on the moon?"
"Central Highlands of Vietnam," he said.
The response might have surprised some at the table. Some might have taken no notice at all, being engaged in other conversation at the time. There was a pause after he responded, just an instant when it seemed as though something else was expected of him, some elaboration. He offered none.The specifics were distant in his mind; he had made them so. Those who heard his response and felt the pause seemed to understand that they were going to move on to other topics now. Carl felt his own renewed enthusiasm in the scattered conversations. They commented on the incredible meal and what fun they were having and what a great evening this was. They have talked about that marvellous evening since within the group, talked about what a great meal it was and how Mark and Donna had managed everything so well. And it really was, and they really had.
Really somethin'.