hmm. No 24-hr Ebola? Then it *has* to be an intestinal parasite about 6ft long. With fangs. And it detached because you weren't feeding it enough. It wanted to evacuate a la Aliens but the 27" zipper defeated it.

Heh. Close, but no kewpie doll, Doll.

While the Mekong Delta wasn't exactly a fever swamp (only about a third of it qualified for that title), we *did* get sick every so often. With one or two pilots knocked on their keisters, Ops had to do some creative flight scheduling -- wasn't like we were anywhere near full strength to begin with. But when everybody got smacked with a bug, Ops got downright creative.

If they strapped you in the seat and you didn't turn to mush and dribble into the chin bubble, you were good to go. And if you could actually make it out to the flight line under your own steam, you could count on getting a single-ship Ash And Trash mission, on the theory that you wouldn't disconcert the groundlings by collapsing at an untoward moment. As in, immediately upon entering the Navy Mess at My Tho (Those Who Know...).

For some reason known only to the Vietnamese Deity of Little Imagination, the 162d was subjected to the whims of a luvverly bit of microbacterial malignancy we christened "the Dong Tams" in honor of the airfield where we first made its acquaintance. An incipient case of the Dong Tams announced itself with a headache that would stop Were-Kitty in full charge. Following the headache within an hour or so, everything within your gastro-intestinal system that was *above* your belt buckle moved north con brio. And thirty plus-or-minus minutes later, everything remaining in your g-i system (no matter where) went south, explosively. Visualize achieving low Earth orbit without external boosters.

And thirty plus-or-minus minutes later, the cycle began again. And continued, regular as clockwork -- which is what gave the Ops guy the idea...

Everyone who had just suffered a projectile burp within, say, the same five-minute span, could be considered in synch with each other and got pegged for CAs. In theory, everybody would land at the PZ, fertilize the rice paddies, then depart with their pax for the LZ and either chum for birds inbound or suppress-with-bile in the LZ. Then lift off and head back to fertilize the paddies some more, pick up another load of troops -- okay, you've got the picture.

Out-of-synch got single-ship on the theory that it didn't much matter what kind of cycle you were on or which orifice was next on the exercise list -- as long as you were in the air,

a. you could either lean 'way out into the slipstream and -- ummmmm -- do a visual check of the tailboom or

b. you were within thirty seconds of landing on the Biggest Bathroom in Asia and the paddies needed fertilizing, anyway.

When the headache hit me, I knew what was next out of the chute, so to speak. I reported to the dispensary, got my tempatcher took, and obtained ten one-pint containers of kaopec (you fill in the rest -- I can't find the li'l *TM* I'd have to tack on the brand name) powder, hereinafter referred to as "k-p." Next stop was our PX, where I purchased a six-pack of orange soda and ten nickel-packs of cherry Kool-Aid Tee-Em. Halfway back to Tent City, the cycle started.

After I spat out the taste of coffee-flavored stomach lining, I poured half an orange soda into a pint container of k-p, shook it up and chugged it. Then mixed a second pint and sipped it down.

Half an hour later, I was relieved to discover that a lot of it had made into my intestinal tract -- at least my sphincter didn't feel like I'd just spent eight hours as a guest of Vlad Tepes. And a half an hour later -- hoo-ah -- gulp down another pint of k-p 'n' orange and a half an hour later -- Rocket Man -- and a half an hour later -- call the Borg -- gulp down another pint of k-p 'n' orange and a half an hour later...

Okay, you've got the idea. Now extend that over about thirty hours.

Oh, yeah -- for the excessively-curious among you, k-p and orange soda tastes like a Creamsicle Tee-Em made with chocolate-flavored gypsum.

While my copilot for the swing ship mission to Moc Hoa via My Tho (see above Navy Mess reference above) and I indulged in mutual commiseration in the pilots' outhouse -- three holes, minimal waiting -- the crews for the morning's CA had been dropping the pH of the North Swamp. Except for the AC of Chalk Two, who was plugging his posterior into the third hole of our al fresco commode.

I mixed a pint of k-p and cherry Kool-Aid (I was out of orange soda by now), chugged it and walked to the flight line. Later, while I was turning the POL point at Moc Hoa a revolutionary red, the flight had landed in a paddy PZ to load troops and offload fertilizer. Except for the AC of Chalk Two...

To be continued...

Didn't think I'd leave you wondering about the Rest of the Story, did you?