DON'T
MEAN NUTHIN One almost enters a trance like
state, where you linger on the edge of sleep and reality. Sounds are
magnified and you keep jerking awake to see if it was real or if it was
a dream. A rifle shot can be heard from miles away, but there is an
unmistakable sound known as Puff the Magic Dragon, when he spits fire ya
know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is real. Nevertheless you hear
these ghostly sounds and they startle your senses. While on the edge of
sleep you wonder if your buddy is awake, so you keep one eye peeled on
him to make sure that he is. It is early in the morning hours and
all is still. Dew forms and a chill absorbs into your bones while an
uneasy feeling ties your insides in knots. Then you hear it, the hollow
sounds of incoming mortars tearing up the darkness. WHOOMP, WHOOMP,
whistling through the air. We are never sure where they will hit, yet as
they hit they explode sending dirt and flying shrapnel shrieking through
the air. The sound of flesh being ripped apart and the cries of the
unfortunate Marines who were in harms way pierce the darkness. Another
volley of three is fired, the center of camp is hit, Marines scramble to
outguess the whistling sounds of destruction. Others throw themselves
flat on the ground and cover their heads with their arms waiting for the
worst Morning breaks, we prepare to move
on, Choppers are coming in and the steady whipping of their blades give
hope to all but the dead. Today they will be flying the KIA’s out. We
cast a solemn glance over to where our Brothers are laid out side by
side, bagged and tagged. Lifeless green masses that were living,
breathing, laughing and dreaming of home just
hours ago. The war is over for them, but for the rest of us it
will go on for what will seem like an eternity. We watch as they are
carried and loaded into the choppers and lifted away. We stare until we
can no longer hear the chopper blades beating out the rhythm of the
dead. The time has come and we are ordered
to gear up, as zombies we stare at each other and without saying a word
ask ourselves if today will be the day that we will meet the same fate
as our brothers that died in the darkness... The Sergeant yells out loudly,
jerking us out of our trance, “form a skirmish line, stagger em', move
out” and we fade slowly into the bush. We see the faces of the dead
and we hear their cries. They are painted on our souls. The subconscious
screams for self preservation and reminds us that we gotta push it back,
push it back! It don't Mean Nuthin... |