The Flying Outhouse
Retired Army Lt. Col. William D. Telfair now lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with his wife, Zia Telfair, also a retired lieutenant colonel. They frequent a movie theater where there is indoor plumbing.

In the summer of 1968, I was flying Cobras out of Dian, Republic of Vietnam, with Apache Troop of the 7th Squadron, 1st Air Cavalry Blackhawks. We were living in wooden-framed tents on sandy soil not much above sea level.

Our toilet facilities, like our living accommodations, were somewhat primitive. They consisted of wooden four-holer outhouses set upon the ground with no foundations. Because of the water table and the crowded area, it was not practical to dig latrine pits under the outhouse, so 55-gallon drums were cut in half and placed under the seats. Each morning the drum halves were pulled out, filled with jet fuel, and burned out and replaced for continued use.

Our entertainment facilities were equally primitive. The only place we could show occasional movies was our mess tent. It was crowded, smoky, and uncomfortably warm, even in the evening.

Being typically enterprising Americans, we constructed an outdoor screen in the center of the compound where, in the absence of sniper, mortar, or rocket attacks, we could drink beer and watch movies in relative comfort. We built a frame from scrap lumber and covered it with canvas from an old tent. The canvas, painted white, made a suitable movie screen.

We braced the screen from the rear with cross members nailed to one of the outhouses so that the screen concealed the outhouse from the movie viewers. Thanks to this clever engineering design, audience members could step behind the screen and visit the outhouse when the beer had taken its usual effect.

Our innovation was quite popular. Flight crews and other personnel from adjoining units would visit to see a movie and share a taste of home in the cool of the evening. Indeed, we innovators of this splendid outdoor theater were regarded as something akin to heroes by members of the compound.

All went well for a while. Then one afternoon, the monsoon season hit suddenly with the fury of a 40-knot wind. Our movie screen became an instant sail, and the outhouse to which it was anchored became a potentially lethal missile, flying across the compound and careening through living areas, mess hall facilities, and operations and headquarters tents.

No one was injured. Still, the sight of the outhouse sailing along and disgorging half drums that rolled at high rates of speed, spreading their contents throughout the area, will remain with me the rest of my days. So will the scathing comments of my commander.

Those of us who had designed and built the screen and who had received such glowing praise a short time before now were treated with something less than affection. Our disloyal fans lost little time finding another venue for movie watching.

Fame truly is fleeting.