His name was Roy Reynolds.  He stood five foot six inches – all two hundred and twenty pounds of him.  He was a former prize fighter from Saint Louis, Mo. and in the Fall of 1968 he was a PFC in the United States Marine Corps serving at Headquarters, Third Marine Amphibious Force (III MAF), Danang, Republic of Vietnam.  He called himself ‘The Strongest Man in the World’ and we, his comrades, didn’t challenge that moniker.

I was a SP4 in the Army at the time, serving as an Enlisted Aide to the Deputy Chief of Staff (Plans)  in the Marine compound located just west of the R&R center called China Beach.

Being a 20 year old Army enlisted man serving at a Marine Headquarters – and a low ranking one at that – always presented some interesting challenges.  One of these was that although all of us serving at III MAF were considered REMFs (that’s Rear Echelon M/F’s), Marine REMF’s styled themselves as the fiercest clerk typists who ever field stripped an Underwood Selectric. ARMY REMF’s such as I, to be sure, were the absolute bottom of the military food chain.

I really didn’t blame them for their condescending attitude towards me. After all, they’d undergone the rigors of Marine Boot Camp and Infantry Training Regiment (as they constantly reminded me) before being taught the complexities and usage of pica and elite type. I on the other hand, merely had to sweat through the Army’s eight weeks of Basic Training at Fort Polk before being sent to Personnel Specialist School. 

Time and again I was reminded that if III MAF ever had to repel a human wave assault, it would be the Marine REMFs who would be saving my Doggy butt.  (‘Doggy’ was a shortened form of Dog Face, the handle given by Marines to all personnel wearing Army green.)

I subscribed to the theory that it would be better to accept such offers of future salvation rather than point out what appeared to me to be significant odds against an occurrence such as a human wave assault against III MAF.  A sapper attack which blew up the ARVN 1^st Division’s Ammunition Depot directly across the road from III MAF shortened the odds a bit, but nonetheless neither I nor my Marine buddies spent a lot of time sharpening bayonets after work. And after a while we became friends and shared many experiences together.

It was on one of those many impossibly hot, humid Vietnamese nights that Roy Reynolds came to really earn his nickname.

If you’ve never heard it before, the U.S. Armed Forces serving in the Republic of Vietnam were the best fed soldiers of all time, anywhere.  I say this knowing that grunts on operations took no delight in C Rations, but also knowing that when they returned to Base Camps in country, they too were fed very well.

At Headquarters III MAF this was particularly true.  The ratio of general officers to other ranks at this camp was somewhere in the neighborhood of one to fifty.  Bird colonels were a dime a dozen and so on down to the lowest officer rank.  While this plethora of brass kept enlisted right arms in a state of perpetual salute, it also had the advantage of guaranteeing that the food was plentiful and first class.

In the evenings it was our habit after closing down the offices to sit out near the helicopter pad and shoot the breeze.

One night we decided to cook steaks on a jerry rigged barbecue grill we’d set up.  After caging a half dozen porterhouses from the Mess Hall we loaded the grill with charcoal. But at this point ran into a stumbling block.  We needed something to light the charcoal. 

Roy Reynolds spotted a nearby Jeep and announced to all his proficiency in civilian life with siphoning gasoline from vehicles.  No one could immediately think of the downside of using gasoline to light a barbecue – such common sense is thankfully saved for peacetime else wars would never be fought – so I set off in search of a suitable siphon, returning with a twenty foot length of hose.

Roy, although not particularly cerebral, was in this case quick to point out he wasn’t totally sure he could suck gasoline from the Jeep to the barbecue pit through all twenty feet of hose.  There was considerable debate about this but in the end, we agreed that Roy would likely run out of suckage power before enough gas had been brought the entire length of hose and we cut the hose into a more manageable ten foot length.

We put one end of the hose into the Jeep’s gas tank and positioned Roy next to the barbecue pit. 

With everything in order, he placed his lips on the end of the hose and began to suck.

After three or four heaving intakes and with the hose still firmly in his mouth, Roy’s eyes bulged almost out of this head while gasoline spurted from his nose.  He yanked the hose away from his mouth, gasping and choking. 

At this point there were several different reactions. 

Part of the group began laughing uproariously. A second faction cursed the fact that while gagging on the gas Roy had yanked the hose out of the barbecue pit spilling most of it uselessly on the ground. Finally, there were even a couple of us who were a tad concerned about Roy who had instantly become highly flammable – both inside and out.  I was in the latter group, a fact about which I am still proud and feel that in spite of the inhumanity of war my reaction proved I had not totally been stripped of all human decency.

Roy staggered from the barbecue area, his mouth, throat and stomach burning from 87 octane.   The former prize fighter with the physical constitution of an ox sat down, head in hand, further insulting his sensory organs as his eyes turned flaming red from contact with his gasoline soaked hands.  Someone offered him a cigarette.   Fortunately, the potential for disaster of that humanitarian gesture was recognized and the idea discarded.

In the glow of an exposed overhead light bulb Roy’s face was changing colors.  First green, then red, then back to green.  Macho individual that he was, he kept refusing offers of assistance until finally he belched loudly which sent droplets of gasoline spewing into the wretchedly hot night.

At this point, I suggested that a trip down to the Dispensary might be in order.  So as not to offend his overly developed sense of manhood I accomplished this by telling him I  really didn’t know what ingestion of gasoline could do to a person’s body internally and that maybe it would be a good idea to get a little old check up.

Despite my otherwise unworthiness resulting from the fact that I was not a Marine, Roy had a certain respect for me and after a while I was able to convince him that this really was a good idea.

Propping him against me we staggered the short distance to the Dispensary.

We fell into the doorway as the Medic on duty shuffled over to the counter against which Roy leaned.  Suddenly he smelled the overwhelming odor of gasoline and with a look of alarm began to quickly back away. 

I explained that my friend had accidentally swallowed gasoline and that I thought he might be suffering some bad effects as a result.  As ridiculous as that sounded, it seemed the most forthright way of describing the situation.  It must have been effective as the Medic didn’t even ask how something THAT stupid could have occurred and simply shrugged, commenting that he’d never treated anyone who’d swallowed gasoline before.

His comment should have set off a warning bell somewhere, but I was feeling pretty good about having gotten Roy to the Dispensary in the first place and thought he was now in good hands.

The Medic sat Roy on a chair and disappeared into the back of the Dispensary.  Returning a few moments later he announced he had read up on the effects of gasoline ingestion and had determined the best course of treatment was to make the patient vomit.  He offered Roy a small brown bottle, explaining that drinking the contents would probably do the trick.

I’m not sure which part of all that Roy reacted to – that the Medic had never seen anyone who’d swallowed gasoline before but had become an authority on treatment within the last five minutes or that he (Roy) was now expected to toss his cookies – but at this point he yelled that in no uncertain terms there was no way he was going to do that!

While this commotion was going on I took the bottle from the Medic and turned it over to read the back label.  I found a Warning that the contents were under no circumstances to be taken internally in view of the likelihood of a terminal conclusion (i.e., Death).

I pointed this out to the Medic who agreed that, why, yes indeed I was right and that drinking the contents might just kill Roy.  We discussed the possibility that the solution might possibly have both effects (vomit AND death) but after a very brief consultation agreed the positive was most definitely offset by the negative.

While I calmed Roy down the Medic disappeared again to search for a suitable alternative.

After a few moments he returned with a twelve ounce glass in his hand containing a cloudy liquid.  Roy’s eyes widened as the Medic explained the glass contained a solution of soap and water which would produce the desired result without the nasty other effects of liquid in the brown bottle.

The Strongest Man in the World took the glass, shook his head, and gulped the contents down. He leaned forward, head bowed above a bucket placed in front of him.

After about ten minutes with no result, the Medic returned with a second glass of soap and water and instructed Roy to drink.  He complied and returned to his vigil above the bucket.

Again with no result, the process was repeated for a third time and after over half an hour of waiting, the Medic opined that insofar as the gasoline had not yet killed Roy and as three glasses of soap and water likewise didn’t seem to have any effect, the best course of treatment was for him to return to the barracks and sleep it off.

With that, we staggered away from the Dispensary into the night, Roy now belching a most unusual combination of gasoline, soap and water. 

I helped Roy back to the barracks. He fell into his bunk and eventually fell asleep.  For days afterward, his bunk mates complained of his high octane bowel thunderclaps and it was some time before any of us felt comfortable lighting a cigarette around him.

As was normal in the service, I lost track of Roy after being transferred to another assignment.  But I still see his bulging eyes, his green (Or was it red?  Or both?) face and the look on it as not one, not two, but three glasses of soap and water found its way into what surely had to be the Strongest Stomach in the World.