O’ dark thirty is the worst time in the world
no matter were it’s at. It’ just to friggin early
for normal humans. The alarm I hurled
came out of my pay. But at least there was
reason for the evil. From the bed I uncurled,
and began the day, knowing what it would
bring. I stepped outside as a slick whirled
onto the pad. We were going home, the whole
squad at once. It should have been great.
Our tour was up. We were gettin on the big
Herky bird that flies home, The Freedom Bird
it was called a big clunky, glorious, thing
that the flyboys knew as Hercules. We din’t
care what it was as long as the whole rig
got off the ground. I looked around at my
motley crew, my friends, as I took a swig
from Gunny’s private stash. We were all
dressed the same as the Army likes us to do.
The Gunny shouted out, "Y’all settle down,
we got a long flight ahead borin’ as hell."
He slumped in a seat, boonie over brown
sleeping eyes. An old soldier, he got sleep
when he could. He had scotch to drown
lesser men in his pack, but he never drank
on patrol; he just saved it until later.
Next to him sat Big Mac whose shoulder
carried our 60-gun, which he used very well.
He was a big, loud, red, Irish from Boulder,
Colorado, I think. He drank an cussed, and
once grabbed up one poor nurse, to hold her
in his big arms and simply said" Kiss me, I‘m
Irish." The look that nurse gave was colder
than anything I’ve seen. And then she kissed
him, that big mic bastard.
Our squad medic, invariably called Doc, sat
down on the other side of the plane, next to me.
I wonder what’s it like to get shot at
and not be able to shoot back? I noticed a red
stain on his shirt; it’s a big blood splat
he hadn’t gotten cleaned off yet. He needed to
go home more than all of us put together.
Shooter, our resident sniper, ambled aboard
next, with his constant companion, Archangel
in his case. The man knew the Lord,
better than most chaplains and prayed daily for
us sinners. Whenever he got bored,
he’d open his laminated Bible and read. From
out of every cell of his being he poured
Gospel, but I’ve seen him kill a man running at a thousand yards.
Our last companion was loaded in the plane
and set on the floor. He didn’t need a chair
anymore; he wasn’t uncomfortable; no pain.
He died two days before we were to leave, the
stupid bastard. I told him not to be lain'
out in the open, but he just smiled that grin.
He saluted me, put on shades and was slain
by a sniper bullet meant for me. Stupid jerks
still can’t figure out how to shoot right.
The plane lifted off from our old home away
from homes; a camp in the friggin jungle. I
snubbed my dead cigarette in the ashtray
by my foot. We had an eighteen hour flight to
live through, "Gonna be a suck-ass day,"
I told myself. Better find somethin to do
before our jumbled neves started to fray
from the stress. I had to find a way to
kill time, so I told them Jim’s plan.
"Listen up, we’re giving Jim a proper wake
just as soon as we find a bar in the World.
He left more than money for booze and steak
he left message for me about what he wanted
to do. ‘You’re going to tell BS, stupid, crack
-ass stories, and the winner gets his drinks paid
for by the rest of you. I’ll be come back
to haunt any of you who don’t play along.
They have to be funny, and should make
fun of something stupid from this war that
seems to have killed me. Be seein you guys."
They stared in shock at the brass that this guy showed, even after he was dead. "So who wants to go first?"