Stories

Huggin' and Chalkin'

We jumped into Missoula, Montana; it looked like the whole town turned out to see us. Cars and people lined the road that ran parallel to our drop zone.

As we landed, it looked like the end of a winning football game as the "fans" ran out on the DZ. I had about ten people helping me collapse my chute and pack it up. There were cowboys, dads, moms, kids, and college students, all very friendly and overly helpful. I remember focusing on securing my M203 above all else. I didn't lose anything, but I had to be careful, faced with that many people around me. They were hurt when I insisted on carrying my ruck and chute myself; I imagined my thousand-dollar chute disappearing in some cowboy's pickup truck.

It was to be a fun trip, unlike any I had ever been on with the 82nd. Usually, we would fly to some Army post, jump into an open sandy space among pine trees, conduct our exercise, and then wait for the C130s to pick us up and take us back to Bragg's sand and pine trees. I had been to almost every state in the Union, and all I had ever seen was sand and pine trees, except in Texas, where we saw sand and Mesquite bushes. This time, we would train during the day and "Let Out" in the evenings, which was unheard of.

We had much to do, so we stayed at the camp the first night.

We loaded transportation to the mountains each morning for training. The Scout Platoon were the primary instructors for the rest of the company, teaching military mountaineering, rope bridges, and rappelling. After returning to camp and secureing our gear each day, we went to the town.

Within walking distance from the camp was a great cowboy bar. I remember it as The Rusty Nail. It had live music, lots of pretty girls, and everyone was happy and friendly. We had a hard time buying drinks. It seemed like everyone at the bar had seen us jump and wanted to sit at our table or have us sit with them. Every night, we had pretty co-eds or cowgirls at our table.

One night, one of our guys came up missing. We were all feeling pretty good, but he was drunk. Like good paratroopers, we began looking for him. We left the single guys at the table with the three lovelies that had joined us, split up into buddy teams (good training), and began to scour the bar. He was nowhere to be found. When we gathered back at the table, we discussed our options and came to the consensus that if he was mugged and dead in a ditch somewhere, it wasn't our fault. We had done due diligence, and he was not spoiling our fun. We went back to drinking and dancing.

About the time I sat down, I felt a big hand grab my shoulder. I turned around to find three big Cowboys standing over us. I stood and asked, "How can I help you, Guy?" The largest one said, "We saw you walking around the bar like you were looking for trouble." Before I could respond, Mitch stood up. Here is where things usually go very wrong; no one fucked with Mitchell Pigg. My guys and Mitch's guys started to their feet. I held them in place with a hand signal. I tried to do the same to Mitch, but he continued to approach me.

"If we do find trouble, we expect you guys to be on our side," Mitch said.

I was dumbfounded. Mitch was usually ready to throw down at any provocation. The boy loved to fight. What prompted this perfect response is still beyond me.

The Cowboys, likewise, were surprised by this comeback. They stood there for a second with stupid looks on their faces until one finally broke the silence and said, "We wanna buy you boys some drinks!" They sat down, the party continued. I was more than a little relieved.

More people joined the party. Before long, there was no more space at our table, so people were standing around us. It was loud and close.

Then, like before, I felt a large hand grab my shoulder. I turned around, wondering how we had offended this person. Standing over me was a woman. In her boots, she stood three to four inches taller than me. She also outweighed me by quite a lot.

"You and me, we're gonna dance," she said, much to the delight of my drunken friends and everyone at the table.

I'm usually up to any challenge, but this one scared me a bit. Why Me? What would happen if I declined? What if she wanted to lead? What if her jealous boyfriend came in; he had to be gigantic!

Throwing caution to the wind, I jumped to my feet and said, "Yes, Ma'am!" I dragged her to the dance floor, spun her around, put my hand on the small of her back, pulling her close, and said, "I noticed you across the bar and was just about to ask you to dance. Thanks!" I lied, but now I was in charge. We two stepped and waltzed, and I taught her to jitter-bug when a good song came on. We danced for about 20 minutes until I said it was time to return to camp. I told her I had a good time and sent her back over to her friends.

When I returned to our table, my buddies went silent, looking at me for some explanation. Mitch was the first to speak up. "Boy, where have you been? Were you a *huggin' and a chalkin'?

There was much slapping me on the back, the cowboys bought me a drink, and my friends continued to push Mitch's joke even farther as only crude paratroopers can.

The rest of the night, I kept a watch on her table, and if she headed my way, which she did several times, I would take one of the girls at our table to the dance floor. This cat-and-mouse game continued for another hour until she and her friends finally left.

After many years, I finally reconnected with Mitch. One of the first things he asked was, "You remember huggin' and chalkin' that big old cowgirl in Montana? Man! We couldn't even see you out there."

*Huggin' and a Chalkin' is a Hoagy Carmichael/Jerry Reed song about a big girl whose boyfriend has to hug a little, make a chalk mark, and hug a little more.