Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley

just the other day, his mother had mailed him three copies of The Doctor’s Quick Weight Loss Diet. The book jacket described it as “a high protein, low carb, and low fat diet.” Myron’s mother Millie scribbled a note which said: Sweetie: Try this on (smile). You should eat six small meals a day instead of three large ones. I lost nearly fifteen pounds the first few weeks and am back to a size seven. Here’s to seeing less of you! Love, Mom.
    Myron’s course was now fixed, his assignment understood. He would lose weight, he would be fit, and then he would retire from Uncle Sam’s Army, return home and begin a new life, with his new Vietnamese bride, Sang Le Mai.
    But first things first. He, she, and the rest of Myron’s rotund recruits were about to embark on a special mission, something never attempted in the Republic of Vietnam. Under his leadership, Myron and his chunky comrades were going to become the “Camp Clamato Weight Loss and Exercise Club.”
    Pulling it off wasn’t going to be easy. It would require as much stealth and skill as any covert military operation. And the undertaking could be risky, too. Myron couldn’t bear to think of the ridicule that might be heaped on him if his mission failed.
    So, even while the stakes were high and thick, Myron remained undaunted. With all the Army’s talk of winning hearts and minds, his “weight loss and exercise club” would reduce Vietnamese behinds and establish his legacy as one of the war’s unsung heroes.
    And it would win the heart of Sang Le Mai.
    As he stood in the NCO club, watching Mai deliver big, juicy hamburgers to hungry and horny GIs, Myron knew he had to move fast. He couldn’t bear to watch her slide her delicate fingers into the stack of French fries or sneak a lick of hamburger grease. He knew that as soon as Mai completed her rounds, she and her kitchen comrades would feast on the same high-caloric content. Myron approached Mai’s table, operation clearly in mind.
    Suddenly, a set of trays crashed to the floor back by the kitchen. Mai jumped, as Sergeant Rob Swenson, the titular manager of the club, rushed over and started screaming at the tiny Vietnamese woman picking up the trays.
    â€œDu mi ami,” Swenson scolded, leaving little doubt what vulgarity he was hollering at the frightened worker. Myron put his hands over his ears as he looked at the humiliated young woman. Her slim, twig-like figure reminded Myron of Mai’s when he’d first met her months ago.
    Since then, Mai’s figure had changed, now more like a tree trunk than a twig. The larger Mai got, the unhappier Myron became. They couldn’t go back to the States this way, like two large shipments of hold baggage.
    Myron found himself standing in front of Mai.
    â€œNo good,” he mumbled, sliding Mai’s tray away.
    Mai smiled. “GI get his own food. This for Mai.” She reached over and stuck her fork in a mountain of fries.
    â€œToo much,” Myron slid the tray away from Mai’s fork. “Numbah Ten,” he added with a scolding face.
    â€œFood good. Mai like,” she said, making a counter attack on her French fries.
    This went on for several minutes, like a bad Three Stooges skit—Myron sliding the tray away and Mai moving it back. One observer who wasn’t amused was club manager Sgt. Rob Swenson.
    â€œEnough of the fucking Chinese checkers,” Swenson shouted, smiling a little at his own joke. “Mai, get your ass back in the kitchen.” He turned toward Myron. “You Numbah 10 GI,” Swenson made a fake scowl. “The bigger my girls get, the better it is for my business.”
    â€œChoi oi,” Myron whistled, trying to keep Mai’s attention. “You dinky dau. Americans no like fat.”
    â€œThere it is,” Swenson countered, poking a finger in the direction of Myron’s belly. Mai giggled her schoolgirl giggle. “How