Hebert

Back in the mid '70s, there was this kid in one company I was assigned to, his name was Hebert. In south Louisiana, the name Hebert is pronounced A-bear. The mists of time have obscured his first name, but Hebert was an infantryman, a lowly rifleman. Before Hebert joined the Army he had been a barber. Back in those days each rifle company was assigned one barber kit. The First Sergeant kept it in the orderly room, and soldiers could check it out and give themselves a haircut if the financial or transportational difficulties were such that a soldier couldn't get to the PX, or afford a $2.00 haircut.

Hebert was a licensed barber in the state of Louisiana. Army regulations forbade him charging money to ply his craft, as did the licensing board of the state of Kentucky. He couldn't charge money for his services, but he could drink beer. So, every Saturday morning, Hebert would hoof it down to the orderly room, check out the barber kit, and set up shop in the latrine, providing haircuts in exchange for cold beer. Hebert loved his beer and he'd crack one beer with every customer.

If you wanted a good haircut, you'd best be in line early, about 8:00. Like old-fashioned barber shops everywhere, the conversations might turn in any direction, and there's no telling what you might discuss, but the one thing we couldn't discuss was how quickly the barber was becoming drunk. As a customer stepped up to sit on the stool, he'd hand Hebert a cold beer and after about the sixth customer, Hebert was hammered. The haircuts got rather interesting, and after the ninth customer a GI buzz cut was all Hebert was capable of providing. By 10:00, the customer line was mainly interested in watching Hebert perform his craft from the fog of a beer induced palsy. Eventually, Hebert would put the barber kit away and go lay down to sleep-off his wages.

I don't know what happened to Hebert. I lost track of him as I've lost track of so many of the soldiers I served beside. Yet, this morning I remember him standing in that latrine, a cold beer in one hand and barber clippers in the next. Next! And the next soldier in line wondering what kind of haircut he was about to get. Heberts haircuts were legendary.

That's what service is all about. Not the adventure, not the danger. Someone once famously said that we don't fight for God, nor Country, nor any of those other high-sounding words. We fight for the guy next to us. For our buddies. For guys like Hebert, who share the same mud and the same blood.

Hebert and I weren't in danger together. Our biggest concern was the wrath of the First Sergeant. As ends every relationship in the military, one or the other of us got orders and moved to another assignment.

I wonder whatever happened to ol' Hebert?