The Gun

Travel Story by Warren Lieberman

Ubon, Thailand

I squeezed into the rear of the ¾-ton truck for the fifteen-minute trip to Ubon. Sergeant Joshua Tremont and a driver sat up front. Dan Ortiz, Pete Guilbert and two others, whose names and faces now elude me, rode with me in the rear. It was only 4pm and I already downed three beers at the Cobra Club. A quick start for the night ahead.

Tremont was in charge, but he could be just as wild as the rest of us. This was our first trip to town from the boonies in over a month. Only about six miles from Ubon, Camp Warin seemed like the middle of nowhere.

Tremont yelled at the driver to step on it and watch the bumps. These two commands were mutually exclusive. We laughed at the comedy up front. We hung on to the overhead bars to keep from falling out during the bumpy ride to town.

"Yeow," Tremont screamed for no reason. It startled us. I saw him stick his head and arm out the passenger window.

"Bang," a shot rang out. He had a fucking gun.

He pulled his head back in and screamed again.

Guilbert turned to me, "What goin' on?"

"I don't know, but Tremont has a pistol."

None of us had ever seen him with a gun before. In fact, all our weapons were locked in a metal storage container. We operated a radio station, our weapons only came out for rare cleanings and scheduled alerts. If we ever got attacked we would be in deep shit.

No one said a word the rest of the trip.

We passed through two or three tiny villages before we came to the village of Warin Chamrab, a small crossroads town on the southern bank of the Mun River. A Thai Army checkpoint monitored traffic crossing over the bridge to Ubon. They usually just watched, occasionally they checked vehicles and paperwork. Today they waved us through; we barely made a rolling stop. The bus behind us also just rolled through.

Some checkpoint.

The northern side of the bridge ended on the high side of the Mun River, it brought us into the middle of the main business district. A few minutes later the truck dropped us off at the Three Sisters bar, less than a mile from the bridge. Three or four other bars and whorehouses were nearby. You could do and get anything here.

"I got business to see tuh. See y'all later," Tremont or Tre', as most of us called him, said with his Georgia accent.

"Dee-dee mow," he barked at the pedi-cab driver as he jumped in. The half-naked driver pedaled away.

Even at this early hour the Three Sisters bar was crowded with Americans, Australians and prostitutes. Smoke and noise filled the air. The overall din drowned out the music from an old jukebox.

The noise wasn't the only assault on the senses. The smell was equally offensive. You noticed it right away. Beer, smoke, sweat and cheap perfume make an unusual combination. After a few strong drinks I wouldn't notice or care. As foul as the club smelled, the bathrooms reeked. You had to be really drunk to use them. Oriental bombsight toilets, hard to use sober, impossible to use drunk. Most of time I just held it in. When I couldn't hold my piss any longer I would go outside and find a dark spot to relieve myself.

We ordered a round of San Miguels and looked for a table. I motioned to the group to follow me to a table near a window. It didn't take long for some of the bargirls to prance over. Their job was to get us to buy them drinks. We paid for whiskey and they drank tea. What a racket.

We hadn't been there ten minutes when Guilbert chased the girls away and leaned towards me. "There's Frenchie."

We called her Frenchie because she was from Laos and spoke French. Supposedly she was connected with the ousted French government in Laos. But with the French gone she rapidly slid down the social ladder. She made it her business to come over to Pete. She spoke in French to him and he responded with a smile and a laugh. She pushed Ortiz away and sat next to Guilbert. I knew they would both soon disappear.

She believed he was French and would somehow take her away. Or maybe she just dreamed it would happen. In any case, she took care of Pete in style.

I just watched the room to see the comings and goings. I watched for Le May, the girlfriend of a black air force pilot and always on the prowl for safe action when he flew missions. Grunts fit the bill; none of us knew the pilot or were stationed at the airbase. I hooked up with her by chance months ago and figured her game real fast. It had the illusion of normalcy, but not quite. You paid for sex, but with food, clothes, and jewelry - not money. Sometimes we even went to the movies or shopped. Or she would ask if I was going to be around some other day. Once she told me I was too drunk and left. She controlled the game, but it was worth it.

I wasn't disappointed. Le May showed up shortly after we arrived. She glided over to our table when she spotted me. She sat down and rubbed her legs against mine. I knew her pilot wasn't around. A little rush went over me. I would get laid in a clean bed. Life's little blessings.

"What's happening soldier boy? I'm hungry now."

That meant she would leave and I would meet her at the restaurant in the Golden Star Hotel. It really wasn't a hotel; it was just a place with a bar, a restaurant and a few rooms upstairs frequented by American and English civilians. We would eat there and then go to her place for the night. I knew I'd miss the truck back.

I looked at Guilbert and Ortiz. "I'm gone." Ortiz was the odd man out. He would find his own action or just get drunk and go back to base tonight. I downed the rest of my beer and started to leave.

I should have moved a little faster. Tremont was back before I could leave.

"I need you to hold something for me. Got things to take care of now."

Tre' always took care of Ortiz, Guilbert and me. When we were in town he bought us drinks and food. Or if one of us were short of cash he would loan us money, or just buy our next ration card before payday. As a trade-off we covered some of his shifts at Camp Warin and generally watched his back. We kept him aware of the location the Military Police and some airmen that he wanted to stay clear of. It was kind of a quid pro quo.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Don't say nothin. Just stay here."

He leaned closer and slipped the pistol into my cargo pants pocket. My hand and fingers played over the gun to confirm what had just happened. Shit. I started to get up, but Tremont pushed me down.

"Down, boy."

The first time I saw the gun was less than an hour ago, now it was in my pocket.

Oh shit, oh shit.

Tremont left and I sat motionless for a few minutes. Little beads of perspiration dripped off my forehead. It was fear, not the humidity.

I left anyway and found a dark spot about fifteen feet behind the bar. A strange compulsion possessed me. It was a Browning 9mm automatic pistol. I cradled it in my hands like a precious object.

"What the fuck am I doing with this," I mumbled. "Got to get Tre'."

A feeling of dread came over me as I heard loud angry voices from the bar. It was Tre', a tall airman, and the Papa San who ran the Three Sisters yelling at each other.

All I could make out was the Papa San yelling, "Get out. Get out."

Tremont raised his hands, as if in surrender, and turned his back to the airmen and the Papa San and walked towards me as I came back inside.

"Come back, you owe us," the airman screamed.

The airman cursed at Tremont. Tremont walked towards me.

Tremont didn't say anything until he reached me. "Give it to me."

"What?" I didn't realize he wanted the gun back.

"Give me the fucking piece, you dummy."

With my acquiescence he reached into my pants pocket and retrieved the Browning. The darkness and his body shielded the view of the gun's transfer. At that moment I expected the worst– but nothing happened. I even closed my eyes momentarily. I stood motionless for a few minutes and looked for Guilbert or Ortiz, neither was around. Then I saw Tre' take a pedi-cab into the darkness.

At that moment I remembered I was supposed to meet Le May. I forgot about Tremont and the gun. Clean sheets and other sweet things.

Read more about the author of this story:
Warren Lieberman