Remember to remember “once was”, no more
Heading south brings a glimmer of
hope that we may be heading back to the main hooch. It’s been a bitch
out here this time, snipers, mortars and numerous KIA’s. Death puts a
damper on everyone’s mood and drives a bayonet directly through the
hearts of those of us who have lost friends this time around. Poor
bastards, most never knew what hit ‘em. I know what your thinkin’and
that is that feelings ain’t sposed to happen here in the Nam cause it
ain’t sposed to mean nuthin. But when day breaks and you see your
buddies laying there pale and vacant eyed and lined up on ponchos on
this God forsaken red earth, it gets to ya big time. Marines slump
shouldered and standing over ‘em shaking their heads and carrying on
conversations with the dead. Some kneeling in disbelief while they just
stare wide eyed at what “once was”. You know what I mean. Christ I
hate this war, seen to much of this already to last me a life time and I
still got a lifetime to do in this fuck hole of a place. It just ain’t
fair how life just up and shits in the face of these who have died
fighting for their country. The bitch of it all is from what I heard
from the FNG’s is that the world could give a rats ass that we’re
dyin’ over here. I wish to hell they could see this up close and
personal, it might just put some color in their lily-white asses. I’d
like to run a pole up a few of them protesters fart holes and start my
own protest movement, sorry bunch of sumbitches. I’ll deal with them
when I get home, if I get home… The sad thing is that the loss of
life only starts here. I mean, I wish that this was all there was to it
and that this was the beginning and the end but it just ain’t so. We
may say our goodbyes and lift ‘em into choppers and, the choppers may
fly them away but God knows it ain’t over once their airborne. My
departed brothers turn into “remember when’s” at the beer hall.
Spooky cause it would have been just days ago when we hoisted beers
together and got shit faced. We just don’t see ourselves on the dead
side of livin’ so we carry on as though we will live forever. Knowing
that it could end anytime. We choose to ignore that fact while the beer
makes us ten feet tall and bullet proof.
We say to each other that it don’t mean nutthin’ and laugh
and bullshit and compare ourselves to Chesty Puller. But deep down
inside there is that hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach that
brings reality to your front door like a direct kick in the nuts. When
it happens it happens so fast that even you don’t believe its
happening at the time. So we get shit-faced and stumble our way back to
the hooch, crawl into the sack and shake and shiver in the dark while
remembering when there were four sitting round the table instead of two.
We sleep after a fashion, we wake up in a stupor, and from that first
moment our feet hit the dirt we burry the “remember when’s” deep
in the subconscious and go on like they never existed. The pains just to
great to carry round with us. At day break we meet up with the others
under the morning Vietnam sun and do the fist over fist routine. One
shout’s, “ what’s it mean”? And we shout out, “ It don’t
mean nuthin”! Then we go
get some chow and go bout our business until the next reality check. Back in the world the end for us is
just the beginning for the family of the ‘Once was”. A telegram is
placed in the hands of the next of kin telling them that their beloved
son or daughter has been killed in action in south bum-fuck Vietnam.
This in turn drops the war in South East Asia right on their doorstep.
Their grief is just beginning and to them this means everything. The
“Once Was” has a name and a past and a place in the hearts of those
who love him. The war has become personal because it stole the youth of
their child. The war stole generations as well as the bloodline,
children and grandchildren that could have been and now never will be.
What “once was” shall bear no fruit. The war has taken future
doctors, poets, scientists, and even beggars away from this society by
the death of this one individual. All the valor and tradition along with
the Flag draped coffin, Taps and a twenty one-gun salute don’t mean
nutthin compared to the death of their Marine. And so it goes. The news
travels, the days go by and at some class reunion some past friend or
girlfriend asks another if they remember the class clown in high school
or the star basketball player who was killed in Vietnam. The lights come
on and one of them says, “Do you remember when” and the circle of
remembrance is complete. From the blood soaked jungles of Vietnam to the
Purple Mountains Majesty of America there is a dark void and that which
was, shall never be. A name will be recorded in some ledger as one who
served his country well, and gave the utmost sacrifice, a brave and
noble Son of small town USA. In the center of town in the years to come
perhaps his name shall be engraved on a small piece of granite. Passers
by will hardly take time to read their own history, nor recognize the
names of the freedom fighters who died for them in some war in a place
called Viet something or other. Nevertheless, today there is a
glimmer of hope because today we that remain in this hellhole may be
heading back to Phubai. We will shower and wash off the blood sweat and
tears. We will rest and we will gather at the beer hall after evening
chow and take a church key to many cans of Bush Bavarian beer. We will
hoist them high in remembrance of that which “once was” and then we
shall remember to “remember when”, no more. |