A memoir of a Vietnam veteran
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, 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 troops conversations fade as they headed towards their hooch. 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.
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