The Dinner Party and the Moon Landing

A recollection of a patrol outside Camp Holloway

Nick Molinaro
First published at nmolinaropost.com
2009

2009 Nick Molinaro

 The Dinner Party and the Moon Landing

18 July 2009, Northern California

Carl Fiorelli enjoys his golden years. Happily married for over forty years and still
fully employed at something he rather likes, he is optimistic and enthusiastic
about each day’s adventures in general. It has all worked out quite well, all in all.
At times, he has thought his life nearly perfect: Love, family, health, adventures,
wonder. He keeps the travails of the past distant and directs his focus where he
likes to keep it.
He and his wife enjoy a circle of friends each of whom enjoys good conversation,
good food, good wine, and plenty of laughter, just as they do. The group of
friends pulled together one of those spur of the moment dinners this particular
Saturday evening. Carl got a call from Mark in the afternoon, and without a bit of
hesitation, accepted the dinner invitation for that evening.
“Hey Carl, I know this is last minute, but if you two . . .”
“We’ll be there, Mark. What time, what do we bring?”
Mark laughed, though he was not surprised. The group knows the Fiorellis are
usually amenable to unplanned excursions and other events. They are quite
comfortable with spontaneity and especially appreciated this invitation. There are
some really good cooks in the group, who love to entertain. Mark is especially
skillful and creative. He is also fearless, and he and his wife, Donna, put together
complex meals with confidence. Being a couple of foodies themselves, the
Fiorellis always anticipate an excellent evening at these gatherings.
Nearly the entire group was there, the preliminaries out on the deck were filled
with the usual good banter and good spirits. Mark and Donna laid out the best
quality cheese, olives, forced meats and cocktails. It seemed that everyone was
in good form this night. Some of the stories were sidesplitting and the teasing
brought witty and effective rejoinders. Inside the house, the aromas of the main
courses (always more than one item) and the side dishes foretold of flavors they
would soon enjoy: garlic, rosemary, sage, pepper, olive oil.
At the dinner table, the spread met the top of the group’s standards. the pork
roast and ribs and chicken and grilled veggies smelled great, looked great, and
were accompanied by excellent wine. The evening was well on its way to being
one of those you talk about later. Carl was in a good groove, especially happy
and quite ready for what the evening offered.
He was seated down at one end of the table studying the food and savoring the
sight and aroma, when he overheard Mark down at the far end of the table to his
right start up what would likely be a go-round the table question of “where were
you on this day and what were you doing?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mark asked. “Forty years. I remember it so well.”
Carl quickly sought to engage a friend to his left in what he hoped would be a
conversation that would occur separate and apart from that which was starting up
at the opposite end. He hoped interest would die out before it got to him. He
leaned in a bit to help hold his friend’s attention and keep the conversation as

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compelling as possible. He thought he had dodged it successfully, as he

detected some tangential topics arise down Mark’s way. It seemed that chatter
had become more general and Mark’s end of the table seemed to have moved
on to other topics. Carl relaxed and let his own conversation taper down.
“How ‘bout you, Carl? Where were you when they landed on the moon?” Mark
asked. Carl stiffened just slightly and brought his napkin to his mouth to gain a
pause that would not look like hesitation or reluctance. He was trying to frame as
brief a response as possible and move the question onto another person.

20 July 1969, Camp Holloway, Central Highlands, South Vietnam

SP5 Carl Fiorelli adjusted his pack again to move it off the raw spot on his
shoulder. Each heavy breath felt as though he were taking in razor blades along
with incredibly wet, pungent, gritty air. He had reached that point of exhaustion
and fear where giving up and collapsing on the ground could be an option. He
thought he was close to that more than once on this patrol, going out and now
coming back in. He had experienced similar resignation on other patrols,
somewhat like runners or triathaletes who “hit the wall.” He worked to force his
focus on his immediate surroundings and the need for taking that slow, cautious
step and one more slow, cautious step and one more slow, cautious step and
one more slow, cautious step, a means of locomotion far more draining than
walking briskly.
No part of his body was without irritation or sweat or stink. The air seemed to
hum and pulse with heat shimmer. The grit, along with the constant sweat and
humidity, formed what felt like a layer of sandpaper under his fatigues that chafed
parts of his body. No amount of water from his canteen could slack the dryness
and thirst. And anyway, he could not have managed to walk and drink at the
same time without falling over. His need to scan, observe, react and signal
obviated any opportunity to drink without hunkering down behind cover, but either
the entire patrol stops and drinks or no one does. So, he did not allow himself to
think of his thirst, never a good thing because that would steal away focus from
where it needed to be. He worked to block his olfactory senses as well to keep
the unique odor of the vegetation outside the perimeter out of his mind, an odor
something like fermentation. That odor caused him some discomfort, mainly
because it brought into focus where he was and in what circumstances.
And yet, at this moment, walking fourth in this single-file, spaced about five yards
apart, neither on point, nor at the rear, he was better off than he had been. He
tried to put himself into a rhythm and cadence of movement he needed to take
hold of his consciousness, but that was difficult while walking slowly, cautiously,
alertly. He had to scan, interpret, analyze, and be ready to signal or drop or fire
his weapon or all of it at once. It is the kind of forced mental concentration that
drains energy the way a battery drains energy when it is discharging. However,
now at least he did not have to set a direction for himself or others. He had been
on point earlier while crossing a large clearing, where the patrol had reformed
and spread out so that they were not single-file. The stress from having no one in
front of him or to the side of him earlier while walking point and the hours of

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moving slowly with the heavy load in the unendurable heat and oppressive
humidity had worn him down, as it had the others.
It would be at least an interminable millennium or more before this patrol would
reach the area just outside the perimeter of the base where everyone felt a larger
measure of security. It was not dense with brush or trees, and the best route
back to the perimeter would be easy to find. Beyond the edge of this area, closer
to the perimeter, young Montagnard women would be waiting with pineapples on
stalks to sell to thirsty, sweating G.I.s for one dollar each. They peeled them with
machetes, leaving the stalk so that the G.I.s could eat them like a drumstick,
which they did ravenously for the juice and sugar. Montagnard men were close at
hand and prominently in view to guard against any ugly behavior. However, he
would not let himself think of that just now.
Somehow, Fiorelli was missing that gene that gives normal beings a sense of
direction. Everyone knew him as a bright guy, well read, a deep thinker, highly
educated, but incapable of finding his way down a narrow hallway with a map. In
fact, he was inept at map reading, mostly owing to his being directionally
challenged, as already noted, but in addition to that, he was color deficient so
that shades of brown and green and gray and red blended to become nearly
indistinguishable–not an asset when reading and interpreting a topographic map.
Inside the perimeter he had spent his first couple of weeks having to find his
assigned hooch by trial and error each day because he just could not remember
what should have been familiar markers and all the hooches and all the rows
looked the same to him.
He considered himself as lacking some of the essential, natural qualities of a
good soldier, and therefore, hopelessly ill–equipped for such a role. And yet,
most considered him an adequate, if not outstanding soldier. Although he had
demonstrated that he could not lead a unit across terrain with heavy cover or
even in some clearings, he was not thought to be a burden on patrol, as some
were. All in all, his fellow soldiers were comfortable in relying on him to be an
asset when needed. He never shirked or dodged. He also never volunteered.
This made him prized as “not a fuckup”, not one who would get you killed by total
ineptness or carelessness or bravado. He followed orders and did his job. Non-
commissioned officers knew he would comply with orders without hesitation.
They also knew not to give him a leadership role out in the field, nor to let him get
separated from the rest of the patrol; he would never find his way back.
His low tolerance for heat and humidity and his inability to navigate with certainty
or at all added to his stress on long patrols that crossed into hot spots where the
V.C. or NVA were known to have been active. He had at times considered the
irony of his circumstances in this army unit in Vietnam, the Fourth Infantry
Division. Trained as a clerk and filling that role for his first two years of a three-
year enlistment, he had little experience in field operations, other than some
winter maneuvers in Germany before his arrival “in country.”
“I’m supposed to be a fucking clerk, y’ know?” he would ponder. “Why do I get
picked for these patrols when there are well trained infantryman here?” It was as

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unanswerable as it was irrelevant. He was in the Army, and going out on patrol
was not an optional activity, and no one was likely to consider his preferences
regarding this issue.
Somehow, again, he had managed to remain vertical throughout another patrol,
except for those times when the guy on point or someone else signaled to drop,
at which point sphincter muscles slammed shut, respiration raced, and blood
vessels constricted within each man in the patrol while everyone scanned and
listened as they got into the lowest profile they could manage.
As they approached familiar terrain, Dragon Mountain, the highest point around
Camp Holloway, came into sight. Like a pack of barn-sour horses anxious for the
stable, the group’s pace picked up, respiration became easier, muscles that had
been tense for prolonged periods relaxed a bit. Glances among the men became
less strained and some exchanged knowing nods. Fiorelli began to believe that
he might not collapse, that perhaps he had once again made it through the wall,
and that he might be nearing the end of one more patrol still ambulatory under
his own power and with the hope that he could avoid others; after all, he was
supposed to be a fucking clerk, y’ know?
What he and the other members of the patrol wanted more than anything upon
returning to the staging area from which they had departed so many hours earlier
was to simply drop everything and plunge into icy water and remain immobile for
hours. That was a primal, compelling fantasy, of course. Allowing only a moment
or two to finish the water remaining in the canteens and gulp down as much more
as they could from spigots around the area, the men had to disassemble, clean
and store gear, check weapons back in, debrief before dismissal. This time, while
thus engaged, they were hearing the buzz about the moon landing; it had
occurred while they were out on patrol, and of course, it had been completely out
of mind during it.
“Neil Armstrong . . . gonna walk on that fuckin’ moon, Man . . . tomorrow ‘sposed
to be. Yeah, Buzz Aldrin, Man . . . what a trip, huh? Un-fuckin’ believable, Man.
We did it.”
Fiorelli managed to perform all the post patrol duties for which he was
responsible and now he sat slumped against the corrugated tin of a hooch, minus
the M-16, the pack, and the steel pot. Knees raised nearly to his chest, elbows
on his knees, forehead in his hands, sweat dripping off of him, even though he
had mopped up several times, he started to feel the relief that normally followed
the return from patrol. His breathing had steadied now. In addition to the relief, he
felt some vague sense almost of accomplishment. He had performed well
enough again, done his job, fulfilled the role he had been assigned without
hindering the mission and he was off the hook for the time being. it would be
unlikely that he would be selected for another patrol for a couple of weeks or
more, if he were lucky. He could reflect a bit on the moon landing and feel some
pride in it. In a dozen hours or so, we would have one of our own walking on its
surface.
“Somethin’ ain’t it?” a buddy said to him.

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“Yeah, really somethin’,” he responded.

18 July 2009, Northern California

“How ‘bout you, Carl?” Mark asked. “Where were you when they landed on the
moon?”
“Central Highlands of Vietnam,” he said.
The response might have surprised some at the table. Some might have taken
no notice at all, being engaged in other conversation at the time. There was a
pause after he responded, just an instant when it seemed as though something
else was expected of him, some elaboration. He offered none. The specifics
were distant in his mind; he had made them so. Those who heard his response
and felt the pause seemed to understand that they were going to move on to
other topics now. Carl felt his own renewed enthusiasm in the scattered
conversations. They commented on the incredible meal and what fun they were
having and what a great evening this was. They have talked about that
marvelous evening since within the group, talked about what a great meal it was
and how Mark and Donna had managed everything so well. And it really was,
and they really had.