cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
Lai Khe, 19 December: It was the last week before the holidays. AFVN news broadcasts continued to talk of a Christmas truce. Those of us with more than 180 days to go began to think we would get out of this place early. The short timers knew better. They talked to each other, "Yeah, another fucking cease fire. Just like Tet. That'll work."
One thing was certain; it didn't take long to turn you into a cynic around this place.
Major Chick was pleased with the first Duty First show we had put together. He had apparently forgiven me for my inability to knock out a Christmas message from the general to his staff. I was glad to be back in his good graces.
The work week moved quickly. Tomorrow Wayne, Willy and I would depart for Di An (pronounced zee on), Long Binh, Saigon and back. I did not have officer-of-the-guard duty. The next show was scripted and waiting our trip to USARV for editing. The rest of the troops were in the other tent watching TV. I pretty much had this tent to myself. I used the time to get some final Christmas notes off to friends back home.
Outside was pitch black and moonless. From time to time a shower passed, marking its path with a sudden rise in the wind and soft plats of heavy rain drops on the canvas roof above me. I located the swivel chair at Jay Smith?s desk and wheeled it over to mine.
I began a letter to Mark Palmer, my fraternity little brother. I knew he would love anything dripping in sarcasm about war and the military so I let loose a barrage. I re-read the thing to myself several times, enjoying each punch line, each caustic phrase, laughing out loud at my own jokes. I found it difficult to give the thing up and seal the envelope.
Two hours moved by. The noise of the TV in the other tent ended. I heard the door slam and the troop's conversations fade as they headed towards their hooches. Stoked by the fun I was having, I continued on. Soon I was into my fourth letter. The quiet of the night was broken only by rain and the sounds of insects, lizards and Charlie Gibbon's pleas for freedom from his chain. The smell of the canvas, the soft breeze that swayed the naked bulb above my head all set a writer's mood. Ideas just seemed to flow.
Then I heard Charlie Gibbon scurry somewhere. One small nerve in my ear picked up a high pitched whistle. I felt my breath suck in and my stomach knot. My reflexes grabbing me before I could reason what was going on; I pushed back from the desk
BLAM! Pitch black. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!
The second blast took all 185 pounds of me and threw me to the floor. I lost consciousness for a few seconds and sat in the dust, confused, stunned, unable to react.
The alert siren began to scream. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!! Each blast pushed against my face, my arms, seeming to squeeze the breath out of my chest. The light bulb flickered and bounced on the end of its tether, casting bizarre shapes onto the olive drab walls. I remained befuddled beneath the desk, trying to decide whether to run for the bunker or crawl further beneath the sturdy desk.
My mind worked so slow. I forgot my training and sat. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and felt something soft, wet and warm slide down my lip and drop onto the gritty dust of the concrete floor. "Blood! Oh, shit!"
BLAM, BLAM! Something, more felt than seen, whizzed past my legs and hands. I heard a thud on the desk top, something clattered to a stop just beyond my hand, something bounced off the concrete floor, stung my arm where the rolled up sleeve of my uniform made a pad of cloth. In my confusion and the gloom I saw something spinning and jumping on the floor. It spun around like a tiny toy top until its energy was spent and it wobbled to a halt. I reached out to pick it up, to inspect its jagged edges. HOT! I dropped it instantly, and shook my fingers to cool them.
My head cleared. Jesus Christ, will you grab a hold of yourself? That's shrapnel. This is an attack. Get your ass moving! I staggered up, moving in slow motion, unable to do what my mind screamed. Smoke and dust filled the tent. The smell of fresh concrete and explosives filled my nostrils. The light continued to jump and flicker. I pulled my senses together, bolted for the door and sprinted toward the bunker, my ear again picked up that shrill whistle along with the sounds of other panicked soldiers. I cleared the entrance to the bunker not bothering to touch a single step. Gibbon hunkered there on the top beam chattering and shivering in his fright.
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! More sirens and then the deeper thuds of the eight-inch battery, our guns, giving the NVA mortar crew something to ponder. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! Charlie had this place zeroed in and continued to fire. Then our guys found the range. More and more deep-throated thuds boomed into the wet night, their heavy shells making that sound of a slow train as they pushed through the tropic air.
The noises, incoming, outgoing, voices shouting and calling out, running feet, continued for a few minutes and then came an eerie silence.
I stood in the complete darkness of the bunker. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my blood coursing my veins. "Good. I'm OK then." My ears were ringing and my nose was beginning to clear of dust and gun powder enough to sense the dank, mildew smell of the bunker. I shivered, noticing that I was sweating despite the relative chill of the night. The "all clear" siren began to wail.
I remembered that I was bleeding somewhere. I put a finger to my nose and found the source. "A nose bleed, a fucking nose bleed. No purple heart there." I sat down on the bench, leaned back and pressed my handkerchief to my nose.
It seemed so silly to get a nose bleed in the middle of a war, but there I was. I had to laugh at myself. I was aware of how exhausted I was. I relaxed, took a deep breath through my mouth and felt a shudder run through my body. It passed. I pulled myself up, mounted the steps of the bunker and stepped back into the night.
The office tent still stood. The light swayed, but no longer flickered or jumped. Books and magazines had been blown onto the floor, but the desks and chairs had not moved. I looked at the desk where I had been working. A wicked piece of shrapnel rested there, irregular in shape, one pointed end embedded in the very spot where I had been writing. I reached out to touch it this time sacrificing just the bare tip of a finger. It was warm, but no longer hot. I grasped the inch and a half piece with my thumb and two fingers and tugged. It didn't budge. I wiggled and then tugged again and it popped free.
I found my letters scattered on the floor, bits of shrapnel rested on and around the paper. I stepped back and heard something crunch beneath my boot, more shrapnel. I looked at the back of the swivel chair. Another piece of shrapnel was stuck in the back rest. I looked at the tent top. Tiny holes appeared above my desk and ran the length of one half of the top. At least one shell must have hit one of the palm trees outside, spraying the tent below.
Charley had failed to serve me my death warrant by the narrowest of margins.
My curiosity served, I turned out the light and headed toward my hooch. I sat on the edge of my bed and peeled off my uniform, piling it next to my cot and leaving my boots and socks close by, ready to re-deploy should Charlie have anything more to say. I lie down and felt my head thumping with thoughts and pain. My legs and arms felt heavy, as if I had just played a day's worth of basketball. Sleep eluded me until my fear finally let go and exhaustion wrapped me in its warming blanket.
One thing was certain; it didn't take long to turn you into a cynic around this place.
Major Chick was pleased with the first Duty First show we had put together. He had apparently forgiven me for my inability to knock out a Christmas message from the general to his staff. I was glad to be back in his good graces.
The work week moved quickly. Tomorrow Wayne, Willy and I would depart for Di An (pronounced zee on), Long Binh, Saigon and back. I did not have officer-of-the-guard duty. The next show was scripted and waiting our trip to USARV for editing. The rest of the troops were in the other tent watching TV. I pretty much had this tent to myself. I used the time to get some final Christmas notes off to friends back home.
Outside was pitch black and moonless. From time to time a shower passed, marking its path with a sudden rise in the wind and soft plats of heavy rain drops on the canvas roof above me. I located the swivel chair at Jay Smith?s desk and wheeled it over to mine.
I began a letter to Mark Palmer, my fraternity little brother. I knew he would love anything dripping in sarcasm about war and the military so I let loose a barrage. I re-read the thing to myself several times, enjoying each punch line, each caustic phrase, laughing out loud at my own jokes. I found it difficult to give the thing up and seal the envelope.
Two hours moved by. The noise of the TV in the other tent ended. I heard the door slam and the troop's conversations fade as they headed towards their hooches. Stoked by the fun I was having, I continued on. Soon I was into my fourth letter. The quiet of the night was broken only by rain and the sounds of insects, lizards and Charlie Gibbon's pleas for freedom from his chain. The smell of the canvas, the soft breeze that swayed the naked bulb above my head all set a writer's mood. Ideas just seemed to flow.
Then I heard Charlie Gibbon scurry somewhere. One small nerve in my ear picked up a high pitched whistle. I felt my breath suck in and my stomach knot. My reflexes grabbing me before I could reason what was going on; I pushed back from the desk
BLAM! Pitch black. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!
The second blast took all 185 pounds of me and threw me to the floor. I lost consciousness for a few seconds and sat in the dust, confused, stunned, unable to react.
The alert siren began to scream. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!! Each blast pushed against my face, my arms, seeming to squeeze the breath out of my chest. The light bulb flickered and bounced on the end of its tether, casting bizarre shapes onto the olive drab walls. I remained befuddled beneath the desk, trying to decide whether to run for the bunker or crawl further beneath the sturdy desk.
My mind worked so slow. I forgot my training and sat. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and felt something soft, wet and warm slide down my lip and drop onto the gritty dust of the concrete floor. "Blood! Oh, shit!"
BLAM, BLAM! Something, more felt than seen, whizzed past my legs and hands. I heard a thud on the desk top, something clattered to a stop just beyond my hand, something bounced off the concrete floor, stung my arm where the rolled up sleeve of my uniform made a pad of cloth. In my confusion and the gloom I saw something spinning and jumping on the floor. It spun around like a tiny toy top until its energy was spent and it wobbled to a halt. I reached out to pick it up, to inspect its jagged edges. HOT! I dropped it instantly, and shook my fingers to cool them.
My head cleared. Jesus Christ, will you grab a hold of yourself? That's shrapnel. This is an attack. Get your ass moving! I staggered up, moving in slow motion, unable to do what my mind screamed. Smoke and dust filled the tent. The smell of fresh concrete and explosives filled my nostrils. The light continued to jump and flicker. I pulled my senses together, bolted for the door and sprinted toward the bunker, my ear again picked up that shrill whistle along with the sounds of other panicked soldiers. I cleared the entrance to the bunker not bothering to touch a single step. Gibbon hunkered there on the top beam chattering and shivering in his fright.
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! More sirens and then the deeper thuds of the eight-inch battery, our guns, giving the NVA mortar crew something to ponder. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! Charlie had this place zeroed in and continued to fire. Then our guys found the range. More and more deep-throated thuds boomed into the wet night, their heavy shells making that sound of a slow train as they pushed through the tropic air.
The noises, incoming, outgoing, voices shouting and calling out, running feet, continued for a few minutes and then came an eerie silence.
I stood in the complete darkness of the bunker. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my blood coursing my veins. "Good. I'm OK then." My ears were ringing and my nose was beginning to clear of dust and gun powder enough to sense the dank, mildew smell of the bunker. I shivered, noticing that I was sweating despite the relative chill of the night. The "all clear" siren began to wail.
I remembered that I was bleeding somewhere. I put a finger to my nose and found the source. "A nose bleed, a fucking nose bleed. No purple heart there." I sat down on the bench, leaned back and pressed my handkerchief to my nose.
It seemed so silly to get a nose bleed in the middle of a war, but there I was. I had to laugh at myself. I was aware of how exhausted I was. I relaxed, took a deep breath through my mouth and felt a shudder run through my body. It passed. I pulled myself up, mounted the steps of the bunker and stepped back into the night.
The office tent still stood. The light swayed, but no longer flickered or jumped. Books and magazines had been blown onto the floor, but the desks and chairs had not moved. I looked at the desk where I had been working. A wicked piece of shrapnel rested there, irregular in shape, one pointed end embedded in the very spot where I had been writing. I reached out to touch it this time sacrificing just the bare tip of a finger. It was warm, but no longer hot. I grasped the inch and a half piece with my thumb and two fingers and tugged. It didn't budge. I wiggled and then tugged again and it popped free.
I found my letters scattered on the floor, bits of shrapnel rested on and around the paper. I stepped back and heard something crunch beneath my boot, more shrapnel. I looked at the back of the swivel chair. Another piece of shrapnel was stuck in the back rest. I looked at the tent top. Tiny holes appeared above my desk and ran the length of one half of the top. At least one shell must have hit one of the palm trees outside, spraying the tent below.
Charley had failed to serve me my death warrant by the narrowest of margins.
My curiosity served, I turned out the light and headed toward my hooch. I sat on the edge of my bed and peeled off my uniform, piling it next to my cot and leaving my boots and socks close by, ready to re-deploy should Charlie have anything more to say. I lie down and felt my head thumping with thoughts and pain. My legs and arms felt heavy, as if I had just played a day's worth of basketball. Sleep eluded me until my fear finally let go and exhaustion wrapped me in its warming blanket.
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