"big munn"
White dudes, like Ruffner and DeSantos, call him Big Munn, so us brothers, we call him Big Munn, too. Big Munn, you see, the biggest, whitest troop in the U.S. Army, is from some tiny-ass town in upstate New York, near Buffalo, he a draftee, and we all medics in the 25th Field Hospital, run a dispensary in Verona, Italy, about 25 of us, but Munn, he can't be no medic, it is like all the stuff they teach him at Ft. Sam Houston in Texas never go into Munn's thick size 8 head, cuz he don't want it to, topkick try and put him in the immunization room with me, and doofas Munn, he can't no more handle a syringe and give a person a shot than perform brain surgery or build an atom bomb. He won't even try.
He say: “I hate this fuckin' place. I ain't givin' no goddam shots.”
I tell topkick Pastell McCray, tough old black first sergeant been in two wars, I can't have this lame mothafucka in the shot room, he won't do nothin', can't do nothin', he too awful to be around. So Top, he send him to the lab, where spec. 5 Raghetti from Brooklyn kick him out in two minutes. Same thing in X ray. So they send him down to Ruffner and DeSantos. they run sterilization and minor surgery and emergency rooms with doctors, and these dudes, they let Munn hang around two days so they can tell stories of his dumbness in the mess hall, and then Top try and train him behind the front desk where he supposed to file medical records and set folks up with the docs, but he so big and clumsy he like a coke machine back there, ain't nobody getting' around him, he don't read and got records disorganized and lost, don't wanna have nothing to do with folks hackin' or coughin' or ailin' in some way, he walk away from them and bitch about how he hate the army, and so finally Top get a brainstorm, cuz you see, Big Munn, on the outside he drive a truck, big old diesel rigs. His dad and brothers, all they do is drive trucks, it a truck-drivin' clan, buncha tuskers roaring around the highways listenin' to that sorry country music, so, like all the other doofas chumps the army don't know what to do with, Top send him to the motor pool.
Well, right off, that motor pool his. They got a big Pontiac Bonneville ambulance transport really sick folks and pregnant women to the main hospital in Vicenza, 35 miles away, and that Bonneville is Munn's. The old WWII box ambulance Munn's. The jeep and deuce and a half truck, they his. Oh sure, they got another dumb honkey out there, name of Desmond Murphy, a Loosiana mudcat, fat, slow, we talkin' molasses slow, and Murphy, he a different kind of slow and dumb than Munn, and by that I mean he real sloppy, and kind a dirty, and maybe the laziest troop on post, cuz Munn, he ain't really lazy, and he a clean freak, his gear top of the line, cuz all he do is work on his brass, his boots, his shoes, his area in the barracks by the window. Weekends, while the rest of us coolies is jivin' downtown huntin' pussy, or playin' cards or pool in the day room, or playin' ball, Big Munn sittin' at his foot locker polishin' and shinin', and writin' his girl a letter, take him an hour to fill one page, and I keep wonderin' what his girl look like, he got a picture of her taped inside his wall locker, won't let nobody look, but I imagine she like him, big as a fridge, sometimes I wander by and say, “Big Munn, let me look at yo' squeeze my brothah”
“Fuck you, Johnson.”
“Hey Big Munn, I just foolin', my man. Hey, you wanna polish up my boots and brass? They lookin' funky. Ain't nobody spit-shine like y'all.”
“Bring 'em over.”
I bring 'em over. “You want a buck or two, my man?”
“Naw, somethin' to do, Johnson.”
“Hey Big Munn, you goin' anywhere tonight?”
“Fuck nooooo.”
“You goin' downtown, gettin' laid?”
“Fuck no. I hate wops. The broads are dirty, they don't shave their legs. They don't speak English, they're pigs.”
“Come on, Big Munn, come to town with us brothahs, we get you some stinky, funky, skanky pussy.”
He won't answer to that.
“Let's go to the movies, man. You and me, Big Munn, like a date.”
“Fuck you, Johnson. I hate movies.”
“Big Munn, let's go to the day room, play us some pool, play us some ping pong, hang out, play some checkers.”
“I hate pool, and I hate ping pong, and I hate checkers.”
“What you like, Munn?”
“My girl and my truck.”
“You like your big Bonneville ambulance, Munn?”
He won't answer. He won't smile.
“Hey Big Munn, my man, I be short, dude. You know, I need a fin til payday. You carry me? I get you back, I always do, you know that. I ever not pay you back?”
I got Big Munn movin' now. He go to his wall locker and get me a fin, hand it over like it's a diamond. Thank you, my man. Munn is okay. I ain't got nothin' against Munn. biggest man in the U.S. army on MY side. And man, Big Munn eat more than any man in the U.S. army. Oh, he bitch about the food, but he don't miss chow, he eat three meals a day, seconds, thirds, and then he set his clock for midnight chow, midnight chow supposed to be for troops work all night, like MP's, and Ruffner and me when we stand CQ in the clinic for emergency services, so we take turns getting us some midnight chow, which is always breakfast, and we see Munn in there, ain't nobody gonna refuse him cuz he don't belong there, he drink a gallon of milk and eat enough eggs and bacon and taters kill a man, shovelin' it in, ain't nobody stoppin' Munn from his chow.
Everybody ask Munn if he play football, and he say no, he hate football, don't even like the Buffalo pro team, he don't like sports at all, he don't even listen to no music, he don't like our Motown, he got this one record he play called “Chrome On the Range,” and what it is is a buncha racin' cars tearin' around a track, round and round, grindin' gears, zoomin', squealin', pealin' out, 40 minutes of this bullshit, Munn on his back, arms folded behind his head, his foot jigglin', loud as he can play it, and sometimes Murphy come over and sit on the edge of his bunk and start talkin' to Munn, who don't want Murphy on his bunk, he seen enough of the doofas in the motor pool, but Murphy, he like the sounds, too, and he got somebody to talk to, and Munn, every once in a while he jump up and yell” “Power shift, power shift! Yahhhh!”
Anyway, Ruffner and DeSantos, who always make fun of his record, been tryin' for a year to get Munn off his ass and do somethin', and finally Cantal, the company clerk, tell us it's Big Munn's birthday comin' up, and so we all start buggin' him about celebratin'. It take us a week of naggin' Big Munn, and finally he sit up and say, “all right, you fuckheads, you asked for it!”
We all get together, Ruffner, DeSantos, Schwank from the dental clinic, Murphy, Robbie, Lamb, Cantal, me, and Big Munn. We goin' to town. Nobody ever seen Big Munn in any threads but his fatigues and dress greens, but now he got on baggy jeans and a flannel shirt and army low quarter shoes, and off we go, got Munn off post the first time, except when he drivin' the Bonneville for emergencies, Munn like a king behind that wheel, swellin' up even bigger, gloves on his hands, THE man, cussin' Italian drivers, bitchin' about the small streets, goin' over a 100 on the icy autostrada, Munn a pro, and when we go on an occasional field problem out in the boonies, Big Munn drive the deuce and a half, Murphy in the box ambulance, the two stooges leadin' the way, my God!
Anyway, off we go, niggers and honkies, Munn like a giant in the middle of us, walkin' through Verona, a cool town, beautiful, all these old buildings from the Roman days, when the honkies killin' each other with swords and clubs. We hit Bruno's, which is in the Piazza Erbe downtown, next to the Romeo and Juliet balcony. Nobody believe we got Big Munn in Bruno's. He drink his first Italian beer in one slug.
I tell him not to drink that rusty tastin' beer, drink the wine, my man, this wine country, but he say, “I hate wine, Johnson. I only drink beer.”
“Gotta go to Germany for good beer,” Ruffner tells him.
“I hate Germany,” says Munn.
“Y'all never been to Germany,” Robbie tells him.
“I don't give a shit. I hate it.” He workin' on a second beer.
“Hey, Big Munn,” says Robbie. “You hate South America?”
“Hate it.”
“How about Australia?”
“Hate it,”
“Africa?”
“Hate it most.” He grins, finishes that second beer.
“What you like, Big Munn?”
“Home, my truck, my woman. You guys suck.”
Big Munn beltin' down that rusty beer. Ain't nobody let him buy a beer, cuz it's his birthday. Dudes from other companies on post, only seen him in the mess hall, think he the guy in the army strictly to eat, and nothin' else, well, they diggin' him, cuz he smile when he drink, and man, can Big Munn drink!
A whore, Rosanna, come up to him, got some titties on her, bleached blond hair like American troops like 'em. Big Munn, he don't want her around
“I got one woman,” he says, “And she ain't here.”
“Okay, Big Munn,” I say. “You in love, we know that, but ain't you got an itch fo' some pussy? We buy you a piece. Guarantee it be goo-ood. Rosanna prima bella.”
“I don't want no dirty wop whore, Johnson, get 'er away from me.”
Rosanna, she peeved, call Big Munn a “porco dio,” which mean pig god. He call HER a pig. Italian bartender, Gianni, yell at Rosanna get her ass away from Big Munn, who got him a red face, ain't never seen him like that, then Dougherty, big MP always shack up with Rosanna, rush over and take a poke at Big Munn, and it like a little boy punchin' at a man. Munn snatch him up and throw him across the the bar like a ragdoll and take out half the tables and send GI's and whores tumblin' and scramblin', ain't nobody seen anything like Big Munn before, and man, we all stoked, we lovin' Big Munn, he's ours, terrible and horrible as he is, we drunk, too, and then Ruffner and DeSantos into it when some white crackers call us niggers, and then Big Munn, he go into action, takin' out half the bar, like a mountain wadin' through some hills, stompin' 'em down, bodies flyin', somebody break a chair over Munn's head, he bleedin', but it ain't doin' no good, and finally the Italian Carabinieri cops, and MPs pull up with sirens wailin' and we run out the place and into the street, head to the train station bar and drink with friendly Italians won't bother us, most especially with Big Munn to guard us.
Big Munn, he grinnin', stridin' out, big old chest stickin' out, wantin' more brew. We all hazy now, but it's a party, all us minglin', and we got fine feelin's for each other, been livin' together for a year, we ain't no medic pussy, we ain't takin' no shit from nobody, we kick MP ass, garrison ass, headquarters ass, take on the mothafuckin' infantry goddammit, we celebrate with the Italians at the train station and they wave when we leave, likin' us American GI's, Munn boltin' down cognac with his rusty beer, yellin' and screamin' down the street, warnin' anybody like to hear it ain't nobody “fuckin' with my boys!”
When we reach post, MP's at gate flash us nasty faces. Big Munn finally feelin' it. He slowin' down big time. We hold him up and he puke out his guts in the middle of the parade field. We keep movin', singin' Motown, Munn singin', too, we push and stagger up the stairs into our barracks and suddenly Munn got Robbie from behind in a bear hug and it appear he tryna hump him. Robbie's eyes buggin' out his head and he squirmin' and squealin'', tryna get loose from Munn, ain't no more than 150 pounds, he ain't half of Big Munn, so we all get to grabbin' at Munn and pryin' his grip off poor Robbie, it take all of us and we go down in a pile on the floor and Robbie jump up and scramble out the barracks like the hobgoblins chasin' him, and Big Munn, he laughing and gigglin' and we leave him there, a sweaty, filthy mess, we go to our bunks and it ain't but 5 minutes pass and we rousted by “Chrome on the Range!”
Well, Big Munn on his back on his bunk, got his boner out his fly and holdin' onto it, picture of his woman on his chest, he ain't hardly awake, we mosey over and see his woman surely is a big old thing, but not bad looking, somebody toss a blanket over Munn and his boner and Robbie creep back in, slither right past the snorin' Munn and go to his bunk. DeSantos turn off that crazy racin' record and we all go to bed, and next morning we all feelin' rotten, only ones movin' is pukin' in the latrine, but Big Munn up early, all cleaned up, lookin' good as new, stops by my bunk and says, “Goin' to chow, Paladin, you fuckin' lowlife?” And he grin and squeeze my foot and go to chow.
And don't nobody say nothin' to Robbie or Munn about him tryna hump our brother, and don't nobody say one thing about it to nobody on post. Our secret.
He say: “I hate this fuckin' place. I ain't givin' no goddam shots.”
I tell topkick Pastell McCray, tough old black first sergeant been in two wars, I can't have this lame mothafucka in the shot room, he won't do nothin', can't do nothin', he too awful to be around. So Top, he send him to the lab, where spec. 5 Raghetti from Brooklyn kick him out in two minutes. Same thing in X ray. So they send him down to Ruffner and DeSantos. they run sterilization and minor surgery and emergency rooms with doctors, and these dudes, they let Munn hang around two days so they can tell stories of his dumbness in the mess hall, and then Top try and train him behind the front desk where he supposed to file medical records and set folks up with the docs, but he so big and clumsy he like a coke machine back there, ain't nobody getting' around him, he don't read and got records disorganized and lost, don't wanna have nothing to do with folks hackin' or coughin' or ailin' in some way, he walk away from them and bitch about how he hate the army, and so finally Top get a brainstorm, cuz you see, Big Munn, on the outside he drive a truck, big old diesel rigs. His dad and brothers, all they do is drive trucks, it a truck-drivin' clan, buncha tuskers roaring around the highways listenin' to that sorry country music, so, like all the other doofas chumps the army don't know what to do with, Top send him to the motor pool.
Well, right off, that motor pool his. They got a big Pontiac Bonneville ambulance transport really sick folks and pregnant women to the main hospital in Vicenza, 35 miles away, and that Bonneville is Munn's. The old WWII box ambulance Munn's. The jeep and deuce and a half truck, they his. Oh sure, they got another dumb honkey out there, name of Desmond Murphy, a Loosiana mudcat, fat, slow, we talkin' molasses slow, and Murphy, he a different kind of slow and dumb than Munn, and by that I mean he real sloppy, and kind a dirty, and maybe the laziest troop on post, cuz Munn, he ain't really lazy, and he a clean freak, his gear top of the line, cuz all he do is work on his brass, his boots, his shoes, his area in the barracks by the window. Weekends, while the rest of us coolies is jivin' downtown huntin' pussy, or playin' cards or pool in the day room, or playin' ball, Big Munn sittin' at his foot locker polishin' and shinin', and writin' his girl a letter, take him an hour to fill one page, and I keep wonderin' what his girl look like, he got a picture of her taped inside his wall locker, won't let nobody look, but I imagine she like him, big as a fridge, sometimes I wander by and say, “Big Munn, let me look at yo' squeeze my brothah”
“Fuck you, Johnson.”
“Hey Big Munn, I just foolin', my man. Hey, you wanna polish up my boots and brass? They lookin' funky. Ain't nobody spit-shine like y'all.”
“Bring 'em over.”
I bring 'em over. “You want a buck or two, my man?”
“Naw, somethin' to do, Johnson.”
“Hey Big Munn, you goin' anywhere tonight?”
“Fuck nooooo.”
“You goin' downtown, gettin' laid?”
“Fuck no. I hate wops. The broads are dirty, they don't shave their legs. They don't speak English, they're pigs.”
“Come on, Big Munn, come to town with us brothahs, we get you some stinky, funky, skanky pussy.”
He won't answer to that.
“Let's go to the movies, man. You and me, Big Munn, like a date.”
“Fuck you, Johnson. I hate movies.”
“Big Munn, let's go to the day room, play us some pool, play us some ping pong, hang out, play some checkers.”
“I hate pool, and I hate ping pong, and I hate checkers.”
“What you like, Munn?”
“My girl and my truck.”
“You like your big Bonneville ambulance, Munn?”
He won't answer. He won't smile.
“Hey Big Munn, my man, I be short, dude. You know, I need a fin til payday. You carry me? I get you back, I always do, you know that. I ever not pay you back?”
I got Big Munn movin' now. He go to his wall locker and get me a fin, hand it over like it's a diamond. Thank you, my man. Munn is okay. I ain't got nothin' against Munn. biggest man in the U.S. army on MY side. And man, Big Munn eat more than any man in the U.S. army. Oh, he bitch about the food, but he don't miss chow, he eat three meals a day, seconds, thirds, and then he set his clock for midnight chow, midnight chow supposed to be for troops work all night, like MP's, and Ruffner and me when we stand CQ in the clinic for emergency services, so we take turns getting us some midnight chow, which is always breakfast, and we see Munn in there, ain't nobody gonna refuse him cuz he don't belong there, he drink a gallon of milk and eat enough eggs and bacon and taters kill a man, shovelin' it in, ain't nobody stoppin' Munn from his chow.
Everybody ask Munn if he play football, and he say no, he hate football, don't even like the Buffalo pro team, he don't like sports at all, he don't even listen to no music, he don't like our Motown, he got this one record he play called “Chrome On the Range,” and what it is is a buncha racin' cars tearin' around a track, round and round, grindin' gears, zoomin', squealin', pealin' out, 40 minutes of this bullshit, Munn on his back, arms folded behind his head, his foot jigglin', loud as he can play it, and sometimes Murphy come over and sit on the edge of his bunk and start talkin' to Munn, who don't want Murphy on his bunk, he seen enough of the doofas in the motor pool, but Murphy, he like the sounds, too, and he got somebody to talk to, and Munn, every once in a while he jump up and yell” “Power shift, power shift! Yahhhh!”
Anyway, Ruffner and DeSantos, who always make fun of his record, been tryin' for a year to get Munn off his ass and do somethin', and finally Cantal, the company clerk, tell us it's Big Munn's birthday comin' up, and so we all start buggin' him about celebratin'. It take us a week of naggin' Big Munn, and finally he sit up and say, “all right, you fuckheads, you asked for it!”
We all get together, Ruffner, DeSantos, Schwank from the dental clinic, Murphy, Robbie, Lamb, Cantal, me, and Big Munn. We goin' to town. Nobody ever seen Big Munn in any threads but his fatigues and dress greens, but now he got on baggy jeans and a flannel shirt and army low quarter shoes, and off we go, got Munn off post the first time, except when he drivin' the Bonneville for emergencies, Munn like a king behind that wheel, swellin' up even bigger, gloves on his hands, THE man, cussin' Italian drivers, bitchin' about the small streets, goin' over a 100 on the icy autostrada, Munn a pro, and when we go on an occasional field problem out in the boonies, Big Munn drive the deuce and a half, Murphy in the box ambulance, the two stooges leadin' the way, my God!
Anyway, off we go, niggers and honkies, Munn like a giant in the middle of us, walkin' through Verona, a cool town, beautiful, all these old buildings from the Roman days, when the honkies killin' each other with swords and clubs. We hit Bruno's, which is in the Piazza Erbe downtown, next to the Romeo and Juliet balcony. Nobody believe we got Big Munn in Bruno's. He drink his first Italian beer in one slug.
I tell him not to drink that rusty tastin' beer, drink the wine, my man, this wine country, but he say, “I hate wine, Johnson. I only drink beer.”
“Gotta go to Germany for good beer,” Ruffner tells him.
“I hate Germany,” says Munn.
“Y'all never been to Germany,” Robbie tells him.
“I don't give a shit. I hate it.” He workin' on a second beer.
“Hey, Big Munn,” says Robbie. “You hate South America?”
“Hate it.”
“How about Australia?”
“Hate it,”
“Africa?”
“Hate it most.” He grins, finishes that second beer.
“What you like, Big Munn?”
“Home, my truck, my woman. You guys suck.”
Big Munn beltin' down that rusty beer. Ain't nobody let him buy a beer, cuz it's his birthday. Dudes from other companies on post, only seen him in the mess hall, think he the guy in the army strictly to eat, and nothin' else, well, they diggin' him, cuz he smile when he drink, and man, can Big Munn drink!
A whore, Rosanna, come up to him, got some titties on her, bleached blond hair like American troops like 'em. Big Munn, he don't want her around
“I got one woman,” he says, “And she ain't here.”
“Okay, Big Munn,” I say. “You in love, we know that, but ain't you got an itch fo' some pussy? We buy you a piece. Guarantee it be goo-ood. Rosanna prima bella.”
“I don't want no dirty wop whore, Johnson, get 'er away from me.”
Rosanna, she peeved, call Big Munn a “porco dio,” which mean pig god. He call HER a pig. Italian bartender, Gianni, yell at Rosanna get her ass away from Big Munn, who got him a red face, ain't never seen him like that, then Dougherty, big MP always shack up with Rosanna, rush over and take a poke at Big Munn, and it like a little boy punchin' at a man. Munn snatch him up and throw him across the the bar like a ragdoll and take out half the tables and send GI's and whores tumblin' and scramblin', ain't nobody seen anything like Big Munn before, and man, we all stoked, we lovin' Big Munn, he's ours, terrible and horrible as he is, we drunk, too, and then Ruffner and DeSantos into it when some white crackers call us niggers, and then Big Munn, he go into action, takin' out half the bar, like a mountain wadin' through some hills, stompin' 'em down, bodies flyin', somebody break a chair over Munn's head, he bleedin', but it ain't doin' no good, and finally the Italian Carabinieri cops, and MPs pull up with sirens wailin' and we run out the place and into the street, head to the train station bar and drink with friendly Italians won't bother us, most especially with Big Munn to guard us.
Big Munn, he grinnin', stridin' out, big old chest stickin' out, wantin' more brew. We all hazy now, but it's a party, all us minglin', and we got fine feelin's for each other, been livin' together for a year, we ain't no medic pussy, we ain't takin' no shit from nobody, we kick MP ass, garrison ass, headquarters ass, take on the mothafuckin' infantry goddammit, we celebrate with the Italians at the train station and they wave when we leave, likin' us American GI's, Munn boltin' down cognac with his rusty beer, yellin' and screamin' down the street, warnin' anybody like to hear it ain't nobody “fuckin' with my boys!”
When we reach post, MP's at gate flash us nasty faces. Big Munn finally feelin' it. He slowin' down big time. We hold him up and he puke out his guts in the middle of the parade field. We keep movin', singin' Motown, Munn singin', too, we push and stagger up the stairs into our barracks and suddenly Munn got Robbie from behind in a bear hug and it appear he tryna hump him. Robbie's eyes buggin' out his head and he squirmin' and squealin'', tryna get loose from Munn, ain't no more than 150 pounds, he ain't half of Big Munn, so we all get to grabbin' at Munn and pryin' his grip off poor Robbie, it take all of us and we go down in a pile on the floor and Robbie jump up and scramble out the barracks like the hobgoblins chasin' him, and Big Munn, he laughing and gigglin' and we leave him there, a sweaty, filthy mess, we go to our bunks and it ain't but 5 minutes pass and we rousted by “Chrome on the Range!”
Well, Big Munn on his back on his bunk, got his boner out his fly and holdin' onto it, picture of his woman on his chest, he ain't hardly awake, we mosey over and see his woman surely is a big old thing, but not bad looking, somebody toss a blanket over Munn and his boner and Robbie creep back in, slither right past the snorin' Munn and go to his bunk. DeSantos turn off that crazy racin' record and we all go to bed, and next morning we all feelin' rotten, only ones movin' is pukin' in the latrine, but Big Munn up early, all cleaned up, lookin' good as new, stops by my bunk and says, “Goin' to chow, Paladin, you fuckin' lowlife?” And he grin and squeeze my foot and go to chow.
And don't nobody say nothin' to Robbie or Munn about him tryna hump our brother, and don't nobody say one thing about it to nobody on post. Our secret.
