Disclaimer:

This story is pretty gross but absolutely true. Don’t read it if you’re gonna get all judgy or anything.  Also, don’t read it while eating food or shortly after a meal.  Also, also, I wouldn’t be drinking coffee or anything while reading it either.  There.  You’ve been warned. 

The Author

Countin’ Crabs

This story involves two of my Marine partners in crime, Lance Corporal Steve Dirrum and Sergeant Frank Morris with whom I served in the Deputy Chief of Staff/Plans Office at III Marine Amphibious Force (III MAF) headquarters in Danang, RVN (’68/’69).

Other participants/attendees/victims besides myself included several other Enlisted Marine REMF’s as well as the DCS/Plans Senior NCO Master Sergeant (‘Top’) Deslongchamps.

First, some words about ‘Top’.

He was a lifelong Marine who served his Country with honor for many years, including  participation in the hell of the Chosin Reservoir battle during the Korean War.   I spent many hours listening to his stories about life in ‘The Crotch’, which is what Marines (at least the lower ranking Enlisted ones) affectionately call their beloved United States Marine Corps. ‘Top’ never used the term but in the context of the story which follows, it’s ironically apropos.

Back to my story.

Dirrum and Morris had at least two things in common: (1) they were both horny as toads and (2) they slept in the same rack in the Enlisted barracks. (A ‘rack’ is a metal framed bunk bed arrangement). Dirrum occupied the upper bunk and Morris the lower.

Fortunately for me, their rack was at the opposite end of the barracks from where I slept.  I was assigned that location due to the fact that being a Doggie (i.e., US ARMY/non Marine low life), I was assigned a single cot nearest the main III MAF helipad which was not more than fifty feet away. 

I quickly discovered why I’d been honored with that particular location.

The walls of the barracks were built of wooden slats with spacing in between to allow for ventilation.  Wire screening between the slats kept out insects for the most part. What was NOT kept out was the sound and fury, dirt and sand generated by the many, many helicopters that regularly took off and landed from the helipad. 

Some of these were small, such as the OH-1 Cayuse (aka the ‘Flying Egg’), but variants ran the gamut from Hueys to aged Sikorskys, to large  multi-rotor CH-47 Chinooks and ‘Others’.

Regardless of size, every time one of them landed or took off, the barracks would shudder and during the dry season clouds of debris would cover me in my bunk.   I quickly learned to sleep covered with a poncho liner (a lightweight liner used to insulate – duhh — a poncho.)

Most mornings my first activity before getting out of the rack was to shake off the mess on top of the poncho liner.  It was hard to believe, but after about thirty days of being awakened every time one of the birds landed or took off, I got used to the noise and it became rare that I would be disturbed by the roar of a helicopter engine thundering right next to where I slept.  War is hell

One day, the far end of the barracks became infested with crabs.

I’m not talking here about the Chesapeake Bay or Stone variety.   I’m talking about the ones that are passed via crotch to crotch encounters (see the ironic reference to ‘The Crotch’ mentioned above?) or if you’re really unlucky by a happenstance visit to the toilet, and which like to homestead among the tumbleweed of the genitalia. 

Fortunately for me, either the distance from the outbreak or the crab’s aversion to helicopters prevented the spread of the infestation as far as my bunk, but that didn’t help Steve or Frank.  They were at ground zero of the outbreak.

On balance, I have to admit that Frank was probably the more sanitary of the two and the fact that Frank slept in the lower bunk, in conjunction with the laws of gravity,  pointed to (but could never be proven, of course) Dirrum as the origin of the whole mess.  Whatever, numerous guys from that end of the barracks became infested while those of us upwind managed to avoid the maelstrom.

Along with the other victims, Frank and Steve trudged to the Dispensary for treatment.  

Said treatment did not eliminate the vile creatures immediately but left them to die a slow and what one hopes was an agonizing death.  In the meantime, the poor itching souls affected were given a wide berth while the barracks was deloused.

Of course an infestation of crabs did not excuse one from duty and Steve and Frank reported post treatment to the DC/S/ Plans Office. 

As uncomfortable as their condition made the rest of us who knew about it, we cut them some slack and didn’t mention it to those without a ‘need to know’. 

This meant that the General, Senior Officers and NCO’s at Deputy Chief of Staff/ Plans, Headquarters,  III MAF went about their business, ignorant of the danger lurking in the ‘Head’ (more Marine jargon for Toilet),  potentially resulting in contraction of the critters. 

Inevitably those of us who did know about it found the usual gallows humor in the situation  which led to a contest in the Office one evening between Steve and Frank.

Bets were made as to which of the two could find the most crabs with results being documented by a physical crab count.

Well fortified with booze, each of them dropped their pants and sat in front of a desk with a piece of typing paper placed on top.  The rest of us as spectators placed our wagers, maintaining a respectful distance while the two of them groped in their crotches for an hour – each successful search being accompanied by cheers regardless of who was the finder.

When time expired the two of them made a count of their captures.  To no one’s surprise, Dirrum won by a huge margin. 

Frank pulled his pants up, wrapped up his losers and went to the Head to dispose of them.

Dirrum, however, was not satisfied to merely win.  He wanted to absolutely crush Frank and continued to dig for gold in his pubes.  The rest of us settled our bets and toasted variously victory or defeat.  Either way it didn’t really matter to us.  No one had ever seen such an exhibition and at any rate, Dirrum was odds on favorite from the start.

Suddenly, Top Deslongchamps opened the door and walked in. 

The place went wild.  We in the audience erupted in laughter as Top looked down at Dirrum with his pants off and a mound of crabs on the desk in front of him.

“Dirrum!  What the F***are you doing???” he yelled..

Looking somewhat sheepishly (and I do mean ‘somewhat’ insofar as Dirrum really had little to no shame) he replied, “Countin’ crabs, Top.”

I thought the veins in Top’s forehead were going to explode.  It took him a good five minutes of some of the finest invective I ever heard before he could even breathe again.  During this tirade Dirrum calmly pulled his pants up and neatly wrapped his winners.

That about concluded the episode as Top, still swearing and sputtering and in spite of himself trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing, turned on his heels in disgust and stormed out of the office. 

The rest of us staggered out to the barracks, holding on to one another to keep from falling down laughing.

I’m guessing that somewhere down the line, Top Deslongchamps added to his history of the Marine Corps and the Chosen Reservoir the story of the Night of the Crabs.