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	A GREEN LIEUTENANT A memoir of a Vietnam veteran

		That left me alone. I continued my letter to Jan. I wrote about some of the horrible scenes I had witnessed since arriving. I threw in a set of 8 X 10, black and white glossies, photos taken by Sergeant Jay Smith and Sondy, from the battle at fire support base Julie. They weren't the worst ones I could have picked but they didn't leave much to the imagination as to the ferocity of that battle. It was a pissy thing to do. I knew Jan could not read the letter to her kids or use the photos in her classroom. She was hoping for a cheerful letter from a college friend telling the kids something about a strange and distant land, a note free of the cares and worries I was so anxious to unload. She was hoping for photos of smiling GI's and happy Vietnamese kids, maybe a truck and a jeep or two, and perhaps a single, staged, photo of a platoon just starting out on patrol: starched fatigues, polished boots and smiles on their faces. PIO bull shit. Safe for public consumption. No blood or body parts.� Here you go kids, wholesome entertainment for the family, and all brought to you by the fine folks in �your United States Army.� I had boxes full of that kind of stuff. The office churned it out everyday, along with the harder stories, but I wasn�t about to deny myself. I let my misery take over. I wanted to punish Jan and her class for my being stuck in Vietnam. I saw no glory here. I saw no reason for our being here, my being here. I wanted out. I wanted home. I wanted this over. I sealed the envelope, addressed it, and then set it aside to mail the next morning. Then I pulled my rain gear over my fatigues, pushed the swivel chair under my desk, turned out the lights, and stepped into the pouring gloom, heading toward the O club. A double scotch or two would either break me out of this mood or turn it into a really fine funk. Happy fucking Holidays! Next Story Return to contents

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