Sergeant George McKay was the best NCO I ever had, during my entire army career. During one of my tours in Vietnam, I had the collateral duty of Property Book Officer…which meant I was the supply officer. McKay was the supply sergeant, and if I asked McKay to have a deuce and a half available for me at 1400, I could put it out of my mind, because at two o’clock in the afternoon, Sergeant McKay would show up with the truck. McKay was a young black man, during the time of “black pride” and “black awareness.” He, like many of the young black soldiers in Vietnam wore a black braided necklace from which hung a black cross. When they met each other they would do the “dap” and elaborate type of handshake that could take up to a minute to complete. McKay’s background was a bit different from most of the other young black soldiers . . . many of whom were from the rural South. McKay was from Los Angeles, his father was a professor of music in a college, his mother was a high school English teacher, and his older sister was a concert pianist. One day Mack approached me with an offer. “Chief, I’d like to take you out to dinner, tonight.” “Well that’s good of you, Mack. Where are we going?” “We’re going to the Soul Kitchen on Tru Minh Ky. I’m going to buy you some soul food.” The Soul Kitchen was run by a retired, black mess sergeant who, having married a Vietnamese woman, was living in Saigon. “Well, that’s very nice of you, Mack.” “You probably won’t be able to eat soul food, Chief. It’s a brother thing, if you know what I mean. But if you can’t handle it, don’t worry…we can get a hamburger at the PX.” “All right. Do you like soul food, Mack?” “Of course. It’s a brother thing.” “Okay.” When we reached the soul kitchen, which was filled with young black soldiers, Mack introduced me as “his” officer. “I’m going to break him in to some soul food,” Mack said. I ordered fried breaded pork chops, turnip greens, with bacon and onion, crowder peas, sweetened ice tea, cornbread, and milk to receive my crumbled cornbread. “I’ll have some chitterlings,” Mack said, reading from the menu. “Uh, Mack, have you ever had chitluns?” “What are chitluns?” “That’s what you just ordered. Chitterlings…are pronounced chitluns. If you’ve never had them, you might want to try something else.” “Chitluns, yes, Sergeant Schuler said I should try them. He said they’re great.” “Schuler might be trying to have some fun with you.” “It’s soul food, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Then that’s what I want.” You could smell the chitluns from the time they were brought from the kitchen, and when they were put on the table in front of Mack, he made a face and leaned back from them. “Yuk! Get this out of here!” They took the chitluns away, as I chowed down on my pork chops, turnip greens, and crowder peas. Mack picked at his turnip greens, but couldn’t eat them. He frowned at the crowder peas. “What are these things? I’ve never seen beans like this?” “They are peas.” “How come they aren’t round and green?” “Because that isn’t the kind of peas they are.” “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m crumbling my cornbread into my milk.” Half an hour later we were at the PX as Mack was eating a hamburger. “How the hell could you eat that stuff?” Mack asked. “Soul food is gross!” “Mack, it might be soul food to you, but to me it was just home cooking. I was raised on that.” Mack got up from the table. “I think I’ll get another order of French fries.”
Posted on: Sat, 08 Jun 2013 16:45:09 +0000
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