The Survival of Captain Green

To get passed over for promotion a third time
would mean professional death.
Our Captain Green's shoulders
ached for a major's oak leaves
as he polished his captain's bars.

If the colonel sniffed at discipline on base,
Green called inspections;
if the major griped of equipment loss,
Captain G set radio technicians
to counting Philips-head screws,
toilet paper rolls, and bed springs.

Within his compound
he wanted boots bright enough
to blind his superiors forty miles away --
regardless of monsoon mud.

His infinite tact in asking air support
rewrote the field manual:
'resupply' became
bumming rice off the ARVN infantry;
'replacement' meant
wait another three weeks.

High command orders for drug busts
brought war inside the wire.

The tank unit across the road
lost a dozen guys surprised by narcs
before they sent their First Sergeant home in a bag.

A touch of tear gas was enough for Captain G.
Users somehow knew
when the stash should disappear.
After the 'surprise' raid on our detachment,
Green collected another commendation --
for keeping his unit clean.

At last came the morning
the Captain packed his duffel for Saigon --
for rotation home to his oak leaves.
He left the lieutenant
to manage any ceremonies
for change of command.

By night fall, beer sold out at the club.
Somebody grabbed Shithead,
the mongrel bitch mascot,
stood her on the bar and,
sprinkling her with the last of a flat beer,
christened her 'Captain G.'

(c) Copyright R. S. Carlson 1995