A memoir by a Vietnam veteran
Ruts in the oiled streets turned into puddles that shimmered in paisley patterns, reflecting the lights of the jeeps and trucks that splashed around the base camp roads.
I came back to the office after dinner, retrieved the swivel chair from Sgt. Jay Smith's desk, and spent some time catching up on letters home and trying to get a handle on the General's Christmas letter to his staff. Major Chick, whose office was in the adjacent tent, had asked me to put something together and I was stuck in a groove. The only idea I could come up with was the Dickens' line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." I twisted it around in a dozen different ways and each time Chick would call me over to his tent. �This isn�t what the general wants to say, Forrest. You make it sound as if all any of us think about is being home.�
�Well,� I thought to myself, �isn�t that the issue here?�Chick was becoming exasperated, I was becoming frustrated and the project was nearing deadline.
Definitely the worst of times.
Someone brought Charlie Gibbon, our pet monkey, into the office. It was a mistake. He began his visit by climbing up into the tent's rafters and gorging himself on all the goodies he could find in the spider webs that filled each junction in the roof including a few of the spiders themselves. We all knew that he would soon get sick and puke those same tidbits down onto someone's desk. Since he was nowhere near my desk, his upset stomach was not my concern.
I diddled with the General's letter some more and then set it aside in complete frustration. The problem was that I could not, would not, let go of my values and see and say things in the language of a career officer. I wanted to be home. Christmas time made that wish all the more poignant. I was sure that the "lifers" were here willingly doing their career work. In my mind they didn't miss home. They really wanted to be here and they wanted us to be there with them.
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