I could use a hammock

We set up in a small clearing that seemed like it was a million miles from nowhere. Dug our foxholes opened up a can of pork and beans and chowed down. As night fell we settled into our positions all locked and loaded and prepared for the night watch. Sure is spooky watching the shadows swallow the jungle around us, you lose all depth perception as trees and landmarks melt into one another like tar. My guess is we were about 30 yards into the clearing facing into the tree line, which was about another 30 yards away. It’s chilling and downright depressing not being able to see anything but blackness in front of ya. Looking up we had a brilliant view of the stars but that was little comfort tonight. The losses we suffered two nights ago were still dancing around in our minds like bouncing Betty’s, quick, sharp and constant reminders of our mortality. My theory is this, if we make it to daybreak we will live another day cause all the weird shit happens at night out in the bush. Charley has never let us down and often sends mortars or rockets howling through the night into camp. Then it’s a mind fuck trying to figure out where the next one will fall. Hit and run, hit and run. That’s what makes the VC so damn impressive and so dangerous. By the time ya get a fix on em’ their gone. During the day its sniper fire that pins us down. Either way we can’t see it coming. Crafty little bastards and devious masters of the art of pain and confusion. They would rather wound one Marine than kill him, cause then it takes two others out because they have to carry the casualty. One bleeding and trying to hang on and two pre-occupied with the welfare of his brother in arms. Geniuses!

Earlier before dusk a bit of scrambling was done to get an ambush patrol together so they could get out and get hid before it got real late. Walking the jungle at night was to me the most frightening thing a man could do. One step at a time slow and easy staring into nothingness, while trying not to make a sound. There were things to consider, such as, booby traps, Punji pits, snakes, enemy ambush, or just plain bumping into Charley doing the same thing we were doing. Most nights in ambush are safer than being in camp. Although I have seen some hellish firefights when an ambush is sprung. Tracers and gun flashes, grenades, screams and scrambling all happening so fast the mind can’t comprehend the action. That’s when pure instinct and survival kick in. Voices crying out in two languages at the top of their fever pitched lungs and then hearing the thud of a body dropping just yards away after being hit. It ain’t all fun and games here in the Nam, Hell we are the oldest nineteen and twenty year old men on the planet earth. I have seen young men go gray overnight on these ambushes and have complete personality changes after one of these experiences. Freaky silence and eyes without reflection as they sit and sharpen their Kabars with drool running down their chin. Losing it in the bush ain’t a bad thing, but the long term effects are a devastating sight to behold when junior steps off the plane somewhere in the world and he gets Momma in a headlock and drags her to the ground. Lots of these guys are falling through the cracks and heading home in this state of mind. There is no de-briefing for us when we leave. Just a plane ticket and a rendezvous with those who want to ignore the fact that a day ago we were in the midst of hell and war. News flash for Mothers of Marines fresh out of Nam..DON’T shake Johnny awake in the morning when you get him up. You may end up with your throat in his hands. Best to just toss a pillow at him and hope for the best.

Getting back to the situation at hand there’s something that frosts my ass. And that is while on the way into this clearing after humping the boondocks and getting pinned down by sniper fire all day, the ARVN’s had already strung their freaking hammocks in the trees. As we walked by they smiled like Cheshire cats who just ate a four pound rat.  Hell yeah, there they were laying back horizontally, hands folded behind their necks with their little green baseball hats cocked on the back of their beady little heads.

Chow-Um yer ass. Me Numbah ten thousand and Me boukoo dinky dau to boot! You’d think that they didn’t have a care in the fucking world as they swung in the breeze like the limp-dicks they are . Worthless shit-birds if ya want my opinion. Never seen em’ fight but I heard they could run like hell, in the opposite direction of course. Wonder if they packed their black pajamas in their packs when they left for the bush. I trust em’ about as far as I could throw a water buffalo. A poignant thought occurs, a Water buffalo would be of more use to us; at least we could eat it. Oh well we will probably be seeing a few of those shit-birds probing the line tonight. Hope so cause most of us stop sharpening our K-bars and quit drooling round midnight.

I could use a hammock…

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