Interview with a Soldier: 1966

We sipped our coffees in silence; I knew he wasn't enjoying it. "How's the coffee?" I asked.

"It's great, but it sucks," he said.

"Oh," I said not knowing how to respond. He would later tell me that he had an unexplained trust in me - unusual for a Viet Nam veteran - and I would think he had a good judge of character.

"It's just that I hate plain coffee," he said, "it reminds me that we were expendable."

"Who?"

"All of us soldiers, we were just kids so far from home and that plain, nasty coffee was our only pleasure. Can you imagine that?"

"No, I can't." I wanted him to tell me more, but I didn't ask.

"So many things bring me there like the smell of the fireworks on the Fourth of July, the noise of a crowd, or even a smiling woman."

"A woman?"

"Yeah, nothing was what it seemed. Everything was a lie."

No response was good enough at that point; it was history, unable to be changed or forgotten - by its participants anyway. Many soldiers struggle with memories of war which they cannot change, but, one thing can change - and that's the heart of mankind:

War: "a state or period of armed conflict between nations, states or parties"
(The American Heritage Dictionary, third edition, 1994).

Location: South Vietnam
Date: November, 1966

During time of war (or in this case, conflict) the wounds that solders received - for the most part - were of a physical nature: gunshot wounds, fragment infiltration, flash burns, etc to this shell defined as my body. In my personal experience, the most devastating wounds were (and are) the ones you do not see; the wounds of the mind. They're the ones that stayed even after physical healing. The mind must also have time to heal. But what is meant by, "to heal"? What had become of the inner voids, the control central, and the memory factory? There was an enemy within that lurked and waited for the time least expected; it was like having a mental scab; it was OK if it remained untouched, but when picked at, it began to flow. Continual picking can cause infection, and possibly take one's life (or in this case, sanity).

My first of three tours in Vietnam, happened to be the worst in my military career, and since I was a cherry (the new kid on the block) with a life expectancy of around a month, I felt somewhat shitty and alone. I carried too much fucking gear; I asked too many fucking questions, and most of all, I was scared shitless. On my third patrol, I was point man. This position was the best location on a patrol, since the Viet Cong (VC, Victor Charlie, or Charlie) always waited for the first man to pass before attempting an ambush. One guy took me under his wing; he helped me to adjust to Nam (that's what we called it). He made my life bearable during this time of getting acquainted with this conflict. He always said to me that when the shooting starts, do not dive to the ground. To quote, "find the largest [fucking] object you can get behind it, and plant your ass there until you can return fire, asshole". This quote still brings a smile to heart, because of his caring for my safety. For that, I will never forget him; but, as fate would have it, his own suggestion to me cost him his own life.

On his last and fatal patrol, we were going through Charlie's backyard searching for hidden weapon caches. We approached the open rice fields on the way to the village that was known to support the local homeboys; the night was still and silent. Then, all we heard was a short puff, and we saw a stream of glowing light that arched high into the night. As the firefly of war hit the correct height, the glow enlarged, gained illuminating power and disclosed all of what the night had hidden. We were at the mercy of the light and the enemy, and time was definitely not on our side. In a split second all around us it seemed like we were being attacked by lighted crickets, but this kind tore flesh and bone and sent searing pain throughout the body. The familiar yell of my protector was a security blanket for me since the tone and commands always directed me to safety. But, when he secured a location behind a solid-looking tree, I heard the sound of an M-60 type weapon fire at him. Time seemed to slow to a snail's pace as the rounds of death and destruction rained on my protector. The fiery rounds shattered and penetrated that tree and ripped into him. I screamed to him, but the time sped up once again and returned to the 'now' time where all life dwells. When I reached, him he cried and shook as his life juices flowed from his torn body. He was gone. The rounds had cut him in half, and all that was left was the shell of the man I respected and loved like the older brother I never had.

Then, the most frightening thing happened. My fear was gone and my blood boiled. My senses piqued and my mouth drooled. I grabbed my weapon, as well as his, and turned to face my brother's killer. I quite frankly cannot say what I was thinking, but all I wanted was blood, my enemies' blood. As I ran toward their line of defense, I began to fire at anything that moved. The rounds flew everywhere and hit everything. Yells were coming from all directions, but for a change they were from the enemy. My mind reverted to time of old, when men fought in battle with no regard for themselves or others. My eyes of revenge cleared, displaying my destruction. Just like in the movies, the smoke began to clear and wounded were scurrying into their burrows of death. The tears of shame and guilt began to flow because the enemy, the ones that murdered my brother, were just children; they could have only have been in their early teens or even grade school. Their faces looked at me in desperation, and they too, had their juices of life flowing and assembling in pools on the burnt ground. The ground that was once their home, their playground, their fortress of family was now their grave. In reaching down and pick up one of the smaller ones, he cried, because I had cut him in two also. To this day that sight still burns in my soul, my mind, and my dreams.

Revenge is considered to be one of the strongest emotions that man or woman can ever experience. If one can control this barbarous drive, one can survive without guilt. Allow it to take control, and a soldier's dreams will remind him of his errors. As I sit in my home writing this story I feel the pain and the shame. My physical wounds have healed, but my mental scab which I just picked begins to flow the stream of memories. Killing is easy, and for a soldier, that is a fact of life; but the toughest challenge is seeing the faces, the faces of the ones that did not make it, especially the ones that did not make it by your hand.