It all began the night the moonmen landed. I was lying on my rack, considering the night’s entertainment options. Crabby could “borrow” the sergeant major’s car again. We could all drop acid, drive up to Disneyland and harass the boots on their first liberty from Camp Pendleton. We could pull up alongside a cadence-calling detail of uniformed gyrenes, lean out the windows and taunt them with such epithets as “Baby killers!” “Murderers!” until they charged after the car down Anaheim Boulevard screaming: “Faggots!” “Hippies!” That was a goof, sure. But it was old hat.
We could smoke-bomb the mess hall again. Or we could revive last month’s officer-impersonation craze. Here’s a playback from that scam:
“MP shack, Pfc. Jones speaking, sir.”
“Pfc. Jones,” I said from a pay phone on base, “this is Captain Hawkes, the 214 duty officer. Send every available man and truck over to Barracks 214. We got a damn race riot on our hands out here. And I mean on the double, private.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
Three minutes later, the MPs pulled into Barracks 214’s parking lot with their sirens shrieking, and while the silly turds were storming the building, Buster Block flattened the tires of their paddy wagons with an ice pick.
Kube Kommander, how goes it?” Buster himself was standing before me in his summer service “A” khakis, a Black Panther beret and a Marx brothers sweatshirt. A 19-year-old professional juvenile delinquent from birth, Buster’s goal was to take over the U.S. Marine Corps by his next birthday and the rest of the world soon after.
“How did a clown like you wind up in the Crotch, Buster?”
“Sure. The revolution’s got to start somewhere, Kube Kommander. And who, I ask you, is better prepared to …
Author: High Times / High Times