Old Man and a Moon Pie

Hal Castle ^ | By Hal Castle, US Army, Ret.

[Calpernia]

Old he was. How old, I’ve no idea, but his hair – what there was of it – was all gray, as was his wispy, long beard and moustache.

Sometimes, in Viet Nam, it was hard to tell exactly what ethnicity a person was, and he could have been any one of the 15 different ethnicities of Vietnamese peoples, or even Chinese or Cambodian…

But he was old. And he was friendly. At least to the three of us. Sort of.

Jubal, Dick and I passed him every time we drove from Davis Station out to our work-place. And it seemed like we passed him when we came back, 12 hours later. He always waved and said something like “GI Number One".

Dick was from Pittsburgh, or near-about. Always talking, always with that Pennsylvania accent, and never saying much, just commenting on the goings on of the day, and what he was seeing, from his place in the right front seat of the M151A2 jeep.

Jubal was from Gulf Coast Mississippi, some-where. A little fishing and shrimping town. Jubal didn’t talk much. If at all.

Me, I was the designated driver, since I had the least time in grade, and if something happened, the Sarge figured I’d suffer less than Dick or Jubal. Besides, Jubal didn’t know how to drive.

Driving in Saigon in ’64 and ’65 wasn’t an easy thing to do. There were little Renault taxis, and pretty women on scooters, and big Army 5 ton trucks, and all sorts of other vehicles, and the little M151A2 we had wasn’t in any way prepared to take any of them on. Or maybe it was me.

Anyway, we had a routine. In good weather, Jubal would just climb over the rear end of the Jeep, into the back seat. In rainy season, he would still get in first, and knew he would be the driest. Once seated, we would light up our favorite smokes.

Dick liked those old sweet Spanish Crooks, while I favored unfiltered Lucky Strikes. Jubal smoked twice a day. On the way to work, and on the way back from work. A little known cigar from West Virginia called Marsh-Wheeling, and rolled with a tit still on the tip.

Back then we didn’t have no fancy cigar cutters, so he either bit it off, or used a good Double X Case pocket knife to slice the excess away…

When we passed the old man, one of us would hand him a smoke of some kind. Dick would give him a cigar, or maybe Jubal would. I’d hand him what ever was in my Lucky pack in my pocket. I’d developed a habit if having one open, and two fresh on the way to work.

One day, right out of the blue, I went to see Jubal. He was sitting on the back steps of his hooch, with tears streaming down his black face.

He was crying because he had gotten a ‘Care Package’ from home. Ladies at the church had put together a bit of a collection, and sent letters and packages to the boys who were ‘overseas’.

Now, Jubal, you have to realize was an ordinary soldier, but he was also an exceptional one. To start with, he was black, from Gulf Coast Mississippi, and a high school drop-out. He was also one of the finest Vietnamese linguists – hell, any Asian language – ever born.

He had volunteered to join the Army for 4 years of active duty, for the chance to go to a good technical school, and when his language aptitude was tested, it went off the scale.

Maybe that was because he had to learn three languages in Mississippi, or maybe not. I didn’t worry about it too much, just appreciated the fact that he was on my shift, and I didn’t have to watch him, to know that he was doing his job.

And, seemed like when I got in trouble trying to talk to the local folks, he was always there to bail me out. My command of the Vietnamese language was not all that good.

Jubal came from a poor family, in a poor town and that ‘Care Package’, bought and paid for by the ladies at church was really something for him to get. And, Lawdy, Lawdy, did it have some fine stuff in it!!!!!

They was some pickled okra – hot of course, and some postage stamps, so he could mail letters to his momma. And envelopes and note paper. Other stuff, such as used to be sent to GI’s in Viet Nam. A tooth brush, embossed with the name of the local dentist that took care of black folks. Some of that old fashioned Gillette cake shaving soap, with a box of razor blades. And a Double Edged Gillette razor, just in case.

Other stuff. Some socks, and so on. Just stuff. All of which a soldier needed in a place like that.

But what Jubal was holding in his hand was what I guess had gotten to him. A Moon Pie. A damned old chocolate Moon Pie. A Moon Pie.

Now, sweets were hard to come by back then, in Viet Nam. The mess hall had deserts, of course, but we couldn’t just go to the PX or market and buy a Moon Pie or a Hershey Bar. So someone there in Mississippi had taken a lot of time to think out what Jubal would really appreciate, if not need.

In the box was 5 other Moon Pies. A considerable amount of money, for someone living on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi at that time….

Couple of hours later, Jubal came around to the barracks where Dick and I lived. He reached into a paper sack he was carrying, and pulled out two of them Moon Pies. Gave one to Dick, and one to me. Didn’t say a word, just handed them to us. Goofy assed grin on his face, too.

Later on, we all headed up to the motor pool, to get the jeep, and head out for a night shift. We stopped by the Mess Hall, and got our usual Pork Chop Bone sandwiches, and Jubal reached into the bag and pulled out another Moon Pie and gave it to the Mess Steward, the guy in charge of the Mess Hall.

Jubal thanked him for the food that was given to us, as we went off into the dank and steamy countryside, and from then own we were always well taken care of by the mess crew…

Like I said, Jubal didn’t talk much, and what happened next like to have floored me, the old country boy that I am…

We passed the old man, and he waved to us as usual. Jubal said ‘Stop'.

'What', I asked.

'Stop', Jubal said.

Now, I haven’t talked about physical things…. Jubal was a big old boy. Could have played for ‘Bama or Old Miss on either line. Dick was way over-weight, and looked a lot like the Michelin Man. I was just average, 5’10" and maybe 175.

Jubal elbowed Dick out of the way, and got out of the jeep. I’m not really comfortable, being stopped in traffic in Viet Nam, and not knowing what is going on around me. Jubal didn’t appear to care one whit.

He walked over to the old man, and reached into his Jungle Fatigue jacket pocket. I figured he was going to give the old guy an extra cigar, but no, he came up with the 4th Moon Pie. Gave it to him, and started ambling on back to the jeep.

The old man slowly peeled the cover off the pie, and took a small bite. Pure bliss. Such as only a Moon Pie can provide. Then he took another small nibble, and waved at Jubal. He called in a bunch of kids, and broke off small pieces and made sure each one had at least a taste of the Moon Pie. Damned old chocolate Moon Pie…

I guess that was a turning point in all our relationships. Dick and I appreciated the fact that Jubal had shared with us something that was meant for him. Out of his heart, not because he had to.

More importantly, the Old Man in the street possibly saved our lives, because of Jubal’s generosity.

On one of our trips, he stopped us, and told us to not use the usual road back to Ton Sahn Nhut. To swing North and then go South. Said that there were bad men on the route we usually took.

We listened and did as he said. We wound up on Plantation Road. As we crossed a particular bridge, Jubal said “This is the place Davis was killed, you know."

Neither Dick nor I knew where we were, until Jubal told us. We were covering the same ground that James Thomas Davis had been on, when he was killed on December 23, 1964 - the first American to die in Viet Nam…

© 1999-2005 Hal Castle, all rights reserved