Two Holers and Pisstubes

I don't know if it would ever occur to a person who was never there. I know it didn't to me. Not until I stepped off that plane new In Country with a full bladder did I begin to wonder where I might find a place to relieve myself. All I could see was tin-roofed hootches glowing oddly from lights powered by generators humming from behind sandbagged enclosures. Even though I couldn't see well in that twightlight world, there were no signs anywhere saying where a Marine could relieve himself.

The USMC in those days was very male oriented. Very. Approximately zero women could be found in a combat environment. I don't remember seeing even one after the stewardess of the civilian transport that delivered us to Vietnam said,"good luck," to each Marine as he stepped off the plane in Danang. At the time, I considered her parting comment uncharacteristically sincere until the reality of where we were began to sink in. Many of those guys would need more than just a little luck to make it back home. I remember her because she was lovely and smelled of lilacs. If I had known it would be nearly six months before I saw another good looking, good smelling American woman like her, I probably would have lingered longer in that doorway. But there were 200 guys behind me anxious to set foot on solid ground after a long, crowded flight from Okinawa, and to be honest, I had other matters on my mind. Like a full bladder.

I should have gone while still on the plane and still in the air, I thought. But there was a long line at every restroom and I soon decided to forget it, which was a mistake. We were now on the ground and standing in another even longer line trying to get checked in. My bladder must be at about its maximum volume, I thought. Trying not to be obvious, I glanced around to see if anyone else was squirming or looking for something they could not see no matter how carefully they scanned their surroundings. No such luck. Not one guy had, "Boy, do I need to piss," written on his forehead asI'm certain was written on mine. Finally, I stepped over to a very bored young corporal in faded utilities and unpolished jungle boots and asked where I could find a restroom.

His eyes said, "You dumbass," but his lips said, "Over there if you have to take a crap, Lieutenant," pointing to his right. "Over there at that piss tube if all you have to do is piss," pointing to his left.

The incongruity of the proposal that one need required the use of one location while the other might require another, escaped me. My bladder was stretched to finality.

His first gesture was toward a rectangular structure about 6 by 8 feet with a roof that slanted toward the back. Corrugated aluminum siding was nailed halfway up the outerwalls followed by mosquito netting the rest of the way to the roof. Access was through a screen door in the middle of the front. I recognized it immediately. A two holer! My childhood, when our family had very few luxuries such as indoor plumbing, came flooding back. I had not actually used an outdoor "privvy" since I was four or five years old when our family lived in a small wooden shack next to my father's sawmill in the 1940's.

Since my particular need at the moment was less demanding than that which would require a two holer, I turned looking for what the Marine referred to as a pisstube. What in hell's name could that be? It was never mentioned in any of the manuals I had ever read. I looked in the direction of his gesture but saw nothing that met the meaning of his words. I looked back at the Corporal.

He pointed again, this time saying, "Over there, sir, by that second hootch. The pipe in the ground."

I looked again. There, off to the side of the hootch and slightly to the rear and in very dim light I saw a pipe some 4 inches in diameter protruding about 24 inches out of the ground and slightly off vertical. White powder had been thrown indescriminately around its base and lightly dusted it's orifice.

The ignominious Pisstube. Efficient. Gender specific. Immodest.

About that time a Major walked up, unbuttoned his trouser and released a very accurate stream efficiently into the tube completely unconcerned that one might think relieving himself in such a public manner might be just a tad uncouth, uncivil and perhaps even a skosh unusual. He yawned covering his mouth with one hand as he held himself with the other.

I kept a short distance back and looked discretely in another direction as he walked back toward me buttoning his fly. I saluted as he walked by and said "Good evening, sir." At thiat point my bladder and my concentration were at a breaking point. I was desperate to not wet myself as I moved quickly toward the tube fumbling with those damned buttons of my USMC utility trousers.

As it turned out, the tube was really very functional. Easy access. Easy go.

I was pleased with my accuracy, dead on, and the enormous relief that welled over me was well worth any sidelong glances that might have come my way from the line of Marines behind me. As I finished, I took a long, deep breath and turned to walk away rebuttoning my fly. I looked at the marines still standing in the dim light waiting to check in. Not one was looking me. I shoved my unwashed hands into my pockets and rejoined the line.

On Shoreleave in Alongapo

When I arrived In-Country, HMM 164 was stationed on the barren dunes of MCAS
Marble Mountain. We flew missions from south of Danang to the northern reaches of South Vietnam including Dong Ha and Khe Sanh.

During the late spring of 1967, we boarded an aircraft carrier with a straight wooden deck that was used in WWII and began flying missions off of the DMZ, but it was only for a short while.

As we assembled in the squadron Ready Room for the day's mission assignments one morning, our Commanding Officer, Lt. Col. McKitrick, I believe, surprised us with an announcement that in a few days we would be sailing to Subic Bay, the Navy's Pacific support base in the Phillippine Islands, where we would leave the ancient wooden-deck boat we were on to a brand new LPH, the USS Tripoli.

More significantly, however, while there, we would be able to go ashore and experience a few nights of "native" night-life.


Our destination was the huge Subic Bay Naval Air Station where much of the Navy's western Pacific forces went for resupply and repairs. Just outside the base, as there is with most all large U.S. bases in the far east, there was a "ville" where locals cater to the military's off-base "social" needs. This Ville was called Alongopo.

Alongapo was known by every sailor and marine who ever milled about the western Pacific as a place for ... well, shall we say ... rest, recuperation and just about any form of recreation one might have an appetite for.

It was on one of those nights that some friends and I were able to don some civvies and get off the ship for awhile to see what we could of the Philippines. Without a lot of effort, we soon found ourselves in Alongapo, a fine little coastal town of sounds, sights, and delights of the body, mind and soul. What I remember of that night was mostly having some beers, riding the ornately painted "jitney's" and running through driving rain showers in and out of bars where we found singers who could exactly imitate such western singers of the time such as the Beatles. I mean exactly. They were amazing. Equally as amazing, many of the singers could speak no english so their sounds were phonetic, studied, and wonderfully entertaining.

At some point a Filipino photographer approached our little group and offered, for a few bucks, to take our picture. Unrealized at the time, the photographer recorded a unique moment of our lives which would bring back many hilarious and not-so-hilarious memories each time I looked at the picture many years later.

Left to right in the picture are Emilio "Sonny" Vergara, Dan Stewart, Craig Waterman, and Dale Cors. Our "trou" were wet because of the rain. The water was over a foot deep in some places which required years of Marine Corps training to get from one beer to the next without getting completely soaked.

Dan was known for his susceptability to seasickness. He could take one step from the dock to the ship's deck and begin feeling queasy. He was a big guy with a big heart and as gentle as a kitten.

Craig always signed his name "H20" followed by the male symbol of a circle with arrow pointing from it. Craig was killed along with his crew and co-pilot Dave Fredrickson when their H-46 helicopter was hit by enemy fire and crashed somewhere north of Phu Bai.

Dale would eventually get the best job in Vietnam. He had his share of dangerous combat missions but ended up as the "O" Club Officer for MCAS Marble Mountain. A dangerous job that would subject him to the wrath of every Marine on the base if they weren't properly entertained or had enough beer. We never let him forget it!

After some 200 combat missions, I was later transferred to the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment as a Forward Air Controller, going on foot patrols with some of the bravest Marines I ever met and calling for air support whenever we were under fire and couldn't take care of the matter ourselves.