Tunnel Division



Diet Donnie pops the top on his zero-calorie cola, eases himself onto the stoop at 56th & Wennington. Im leaning against the wall, with a sugary Hires Root Beer in hand.

Man, says Donnie, you better start growin more, Cookie, else theyre gonna put you in the Tunnel Division.

Tunnel Division? What the heck is the Tunnel Division?

Thats where they stick short guys like you in Vietnam down in them tunnels.

What tunnels, Donnie?

The Viet Cong tunnels, Donnie explains.

Says who?

Says Jeff.

Whos Jeff?

This guy I work with on my fathers roofing truck. He finished his tour in Nam, just came back. Says its real bad over there. Things are all messed up, stoned-cold crazy . . . people dyin left and right.

Hey, I read the paper. Heck, I deliver the paper! I know people are getting shot up. Theyve got the body count listed daily. What I dont know is whats up with short guys and this Tunnel Division stuff. So I pester Donnie for details.

Donnie spits some cola on the sidewalk, temporarily wipes the long hair from his pink, pimpled forehead.

The Cong are little people, Donnie points out. And they got these tunnels dug underground all over the country, criss-crossing this way and that. One minute you think the coast is clear, then POW! Charlie jumps up outta these tunnels and cuts you to pieces with AK-47s and whatnot. Thats when the U.S. Army sends in the Tunnel Division. You know, the tunnel rats.

To do what, Donnie?

Smoke em out, thats what. With grenades, machine guns, flame throwers, whatever. . . . But youve gotta be a little guy to fit down into them tiny Cong-sized holes.

My mind races back to my days of navigating the drainage system that empties into Dobbs Creek Park. While the other kids were climbing trees, I was snaking underground through a maze of unseen, subterranean pipes.

Of course, Donnie adds, they lose a lot of the tunnel rats. Its about the worst possible division you can be in. Charlie puts all sorts of surprises down there. Trip wire booby-traps with grenades, spring-loaded poles with buck knives that come flyin out and stab you like youre a pin cushion. Even those giant python snakes. But the worst of all are the pungi sticks.

Pungi sticks? I ask.

Yeah, pungi sticks some real nasty stuff. Jeff says the Cong hide em in the tunnels so you step on em or crawl over em. Sharp sticks coated in all kinds of crap, like buffalo dung. Once the stick goes in you, the poisons in your blood. Doesnt kill you right away, like bullets and mortar shells do. But when your arm or leg turns green and blows up three times its normal size and the docs gotta cut it off, youll wish they gotcha with the booby-trapped grenade instead, like real nice and quick.

I take a sip of my root beer, swallow, try to pretend all this doesnt bother me. But it does. Suddenly my root beer tastes flat and Im not so thirsty any more.

Hey, Donnie! I tease. Maybe if you lose some weight we can both join this Tunnel Division together.

Yeah, right! Donnie snorts. Fat chance!

Now we both have a good laugh.

Afterward, I ask Donnie what his roofer friend Jeff is like.

Hes all right, my buddy replies. Crazy as hell, though.

Crazy? I ask. How so?

You know crazy, crazy. You do a tour in Nam, youll be nutty too, smirks Donnie. Jeffs nuts, theyre all nuts all them guys thats comin back. Aint none of em right in the head. You ever hear about the older guys who hang down on 52nd Street?

No.

No, huh? Well they call themselves Nam. Not Five-Two or anything like that. Just Nam. All kellered guys like twenty-one, twenty-two . . . and every ones been to Vietnam. They dont work, dont go to school, dont do nothin. They just drink wine and beer, smoke marijuana, hang on the corner in their fatigues. Nobody messes with em, not even Cuz. One dudes supposed to have this box of live grenades he brought back. Sooner or later, these guys are gonna kill somebody. Even the cops stay away from that corner. . . .

The Tunnel Division. And here I always wanted to get taller just so I could make Western Catholics baseball team.

Now, Ive got a whole new reason. Talk about getting the short end of the stick.

Like a pungi stick.

Seriously shortchanged.