family history, part seven

Continuing the story of Handy Randy, my Uncle Randolph Barrington II:

In the fall of 1963, after his unexpected outing in the closet by Old Grandad, my Uncle Randolph found himself in a place as close to paradise as he ever imagined: basic training for the United States Army.

Old Grandad may have been a master of business, but at times he knew jack squat about human nature. His plan to make a real man out of Uncle Randolph by enlisting him in the military was successful only if you feel that The Village People represent the epitome of masculinity and manly virtue.

This was not the outcome that Old Grandad envisioned, but his large ego prevented him from ever seeing he was wrong and he was a large enough narcissist to be mostly oblivious to the impact of his decisions on other people. Some say that I take after him that way, but I think those people are assholes.

Once Uncle Randolph shipped off to boot camp Old Grandad considered the job successfully completed. He spent many nights congratulating himself with toasts of fine brandy and cuban cigars, telling any who would listen how he reformed and saved his son from a sinful life of rump ranging and butt piracy.

As for me, I can barely imagine a more hellish place, but boot camp was just the ticket for young Uncle Randolph. He had spent his short 18 years largely behind the ivy walls of exclusive boarding schools. He thrived on the routine. He loved being told what to do and when to do it. He thrived on the structure. He loved the exclusive company of his gender. It was the only way of life he knew.

The wonderful difference about boot camp was that he was no longer surrounded by mere boys. He was surrounded by men. He was surrounded by young, strong, virile men, with firm tight bodies whose muscles rippled under golden tanned skin glistening with beads of sweat in the afternoon sun. He lived with them, he slept in a bunk next to them. He showered with them.

Uncle Randolph could not contain himself. Being a Barrington he never had to, subsequently he did not now how to do so anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered if he had tried. It wasn't long before rumors were flying around the base faster than Handy Randy's nimble fingers in the barracks after lights out. These rumors eventually reached the ears of the Retired Colonel.

The Retired Colonel was probably about the closest thing to a friend Old Grandad ever had. He saw Old Grandad's pride in his heir and at his success at saving him from the sins of Sodom. Aside from staking his own reputation on the line by bending and breaking regulations to sneak Uncle Randolph in as an officer, he did not want to see Old Grandad disappointed or see the great name of a friend drug through the mud of the press.

The one-legged Retired Colonel spoke with a two-legged General who he once knew as a young Captain under his command. The Retired Colonel lost his one leg saving the two legs and ass of the young Captain as the Gerry bombs were falling during the Blitz.

You'd be amazed at how fast rumors on a military base cease and become silent if two or three gossipy soldiers suddenly find themselves hiding from sniper fire in the rice paddies on the front lines of a smouldering and expanding war in South-east Asia.

After basic training, Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel got Uncle Randolph stationed in a small windowless office deep in the bowels of the Pentagon where only the cleaning people remember to go and sometimes they even forget. He was assigned as the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officer in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies for soliders in the field. He shuffled papers which directed the Army to purchase and ship things like soap, combs, deodorant, shampoo, toothbrushes, and yes condoms to the various hot spots around the globe. Old Grandad wanted him close enough to keep him safe yet far enough away not to have to deal with him. This job fit the bill.

You can imagine the fun Uncle Randolph had working at the Pentagon. Really now, the whole military is just so gay. It's just so obvious: with their sharply pressed uniforms, their obsession with detail, their emphasis on the fitness of the male form, all those shiny ribbons and medals, polished guns spurting rounds of hot lead, and oh, how they love to march in parades!

All was going well until mid October 1965. One night, when leaving a brothel in a drunken heroin fueled stupor the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officer in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies for South-east Asia was run over by a rickshaw. His head was crushed like a grape. As he was also the child of a powerful and influential family (that is apparently how you get the job) he was officially listed as "Killed In Action" and was awarded a post-humous Purple Heart.

Being the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the chief officers in charge of procuring non-medical health and grooming supplies requires a fairly specific and limited skill set. When the Army went about searching for a replacement to their recent casualty of war Uncle Randolph's number came up. During the first week of November 1965 he heard the news.

Old Grandad and The Retired Colonel could have easily intervened and had Uncle Randolph's orders changed, but Old Grandad was in the process of negotiating a deal with Bell Helicopter to provide the bolts and metal fasteners used in the manufacture AH-1G Cobra helicopters to support the war effort. He viewed having a son going overseas to help fight those commie cocksuckers as a patriotic chip to help him at the bargaining table. He was right and he got the contract.

And Uncle Randolph had his orders. He would be in Saigon by the end of the month.