My Pan Am landed at night so I reckon the scattered tracers and parachute flares floating down over suspected targets had to be a big one on the list of surprise visuals. I knew this shit was serious way back when I was in basic training. But to actually land on the stage of a war game... well, now that I think about it I guess tracers and flares would be a good if not expected backdrop. So, although it got my attention there was really no surprise to it.

The next morning though, I awoke to observe the ruins of the battle I'd witnessed from the plane. I was apparently in a fairly safe zone called the 90th replacement center. So that was cool. But off in the not far enough distance, I could see numerous plumes of black smoke billowing straight up in the early morning 100 + degree sky.

I wondered if it was smoke from shot down helicopters or buildings still burning off the napalm grease. Jesus! They were all around the horizon! In any direction, there was a plume of smoke.

I suppose you've guessed by now that the smoke I observed on that first morning had nothing to do with combat. I had to ask somebody of course, and they told me it was "burning shit." I thought "...is this asshole trying to initiate me or something? Am I supposed to fall for this burning shit routine?" The answers were no and yes respectively. "Burning shit" was indeed a routine. It was an actual job, and therefore, someone had to do it. I realize the job title is gross and apologize to any "non-vet" readers, but it's important you know what I'm talking about.

Shitburning was not a "detail" that was made up to punish losers and screw-ups... like cleaning mess hall grease traps, or digging a hole and filling it back up. It was something that had to be done everyday at every base camp. It was an actual job assigned to one guy who did it everyday, probably twice. His tools would be a four foot long steel hook for dragging barrel halves out from under the "shitter" (or if you're a lifer, "latrine!",) a pack of matches, and all the diesel fuel he could carry. A couple of quarts of the fuel mixed in real good with the human waste and set on fire and "...you got yourself a portable chemical waste treatment plant." If you kept the mixture burning by stirring and adding fuel every once in a while, it all turned to smoke and ashes. The ashes were poured into a ditch and buried , giving you a fresh empty that you shove under the "latrine" as soon as you pull out a full one. To make sure there are no accidents, a wise shitburner would have one more important tool ...a sign he could hang on the door before changing barrels that read "Shitter Closed!" (It could get messy if someone used a porthole while you were changing barrels.)

For those who weren't "queasy" about working with human waste, this was one of the best "remf" jobs you could get. Why? Because everyone left you alone. Who'd want to even get close to someone whose job was burning shit? I happened to meet the guy who had that job at Sally though, and can tell you first hand that not only was he a very clean individual, but he also had it made, and he knew it. He probably "acquired" the job by screwing up somehow, but he'd turned it into a masterpiece. Twice a day for a half hour or so he worked the barrels. The rest of the day was his. If it looked like someone was about to tag him for another detail, he could just pick up his "stirring utensil" and look busy real quick. And if a guy was carrying a tool like that... again I ask who'd even get close to him?

He had a very nice hootch, complete with stereo eight-track, coffee table, cot w/air mattress, mosquito netting, and plenty of bug spray. The bug spray was more of an instant air freshener than anything else. It was used in emergencies like when an officer approached his hootch. (Most times there was a smoky blue cloud hanging around his room.)

During his many hours of free time, this guy would make pipes. Smoking pipes that is. He used pieces of bamboo and parts of bullets which were of course made of brass. He was quite an artist at this craft, and many of his pipes ended up out in the field with friends who had met him on trips to the rear. The pipes were cool, and usually got even cooler when "autographed" by other grunts who had used them honorably. One pipe I remember even had a name. It was called "La Pipa." The guy who owned it probably wishes he still had it, but I think he lost it while stumbling up and down the mountains and jungle paths of the Tam Ky AO. "La Pipa" (the pipe) is long gone but it's owner and those who shared it and signed it live on. There must be a moral in there somewhere. Did the pipes bring good luck? Did using the pipes make you invincible? Were they magic?

Only the shitburner knows for sure.

Orr