I sat with my fellow passengers, uncomfortable on slatted wood benches, in the bed of a camouflaged painted deuce-and-a-half. We were the last vehicle of a convoy lined up at the gate of the air base. The trucks roared as the drivers, eager to get it on, revved the engines, and black, acrid exhaust blew from the vertical pipes located on each side of the cab. Their lids popped up and down like teakettles blowing steam. 

The sentry stepped out of his booth and peered out into the countryside, hand over his eyebrows like he was looking for an oasis in an arid desert. Satisfied, he marked something on a clipboard hanging on the MP shack, then he blew his whistle and waved the convoy through like he was the starter at the Indy 500. The first truck lunged forward and tore down a road, the others following in quick succession. The multitude of tires churned dirt into the air and a cloud hung over the rear of the convoy. Grit lined my nasal cavities and clogged my ears. It filled the gaps between my teeth, and when I swallowed, a pound went down my throat. The powder clung to my oiled rifle, and formed tiny sand dunes in my lap.

     First Vietnam lesson learned: Never ride ass-end of a convoy.

     As the trucks increased their interval, the air cleared and I stood and checked everything out. The sky, a crayon blue, was patterned with white clouds fluffy as angel food cake. Old Sol, aflame in finite nuclear explosion, seemed to be twice as large on this side of the world. His solar rays bounced off the still water that filled the lush, green rice paddies, providing an incandescent light show. Undersized people dressed in white mandarin shirts and loose, black pants cuffed to the knees, stood in the waters minding the crop. Some threw us furtive glances from beneath conical hats as we passed—but most ignored us, keeping that ol’ low profile.

     The vista spread before me unobstructed by city skylines. Villages sat small in the distance, but the open ruled. I felt dwarfed by the expanse, and could not imagine the ability to wander without boundary. Where I grew up, my neighbor’s houses were as close as ninety-nine was to a hundred.

     As the convoy progressed, trucks peeled off one by one to enter compounds until mine was rolling solo. At one point, we began to decelerate, an MP in the distance waving the driver to a halt at a checkpoint.

     “What’s up, sarge?” I heard the driver’s voice from the cab.

     The MP stared down the highway, his hand on his holster, “There’s a firefight about a quarter-klick up the road.” He then turned to look up at me. “I suggest you get down out of sight.”

     I sat and looked at the guy next to me. “What’s a klick?”

     He shrugged. “What’s a firefight?”

     The sound of gunfire erupted to the front, dangerously close. I belly-flopped to the sandbagged truck bed, followed by the rest. A string of grenades exploded, making that c-a-r-r-u-n-c-h sound I remembered from infantry training. The sounds of war built to earsplitting intensity, and I hugged my impotent rifle. Then the din died down to sporadic shots. Then silence. A peculiar type of quiet, not funeral or church. But loud in its noiselessness.    

The MP’s walkie-talkie squawked unintelligible chatter, then the truck lurched forward and I stood up again. Further down the road we passed the marines that had participated in the battle. They lounged on the sides of the road smoking, others sat half-hidden in tall brush. With kissers painted with camo-stick, arms layered with streaks of grime, and clothes filthy and ragged, they looked mean enough to kill their grandmothers. They stared at us as we passed, smug grins on their unshaven faces. Then came the digs.

     “Gee, look at all the BAM’s in their pretty, new uniforms.”

     “Welcome to da Nam, putas. Chu jus gonna luv it here.”

     “Doan worry, cherries. We kilt all those mean ol’ Cong for you.”

     “Hey Bro. Check out the chucks. Cats even get to ride around in trucks.”

     As our rig passed the last man, some wise guy fired a round into the air. I dove to the floor again, the other marines landing on my back, and could hear the hoots and howls as we drove away.

     When the last man got off my back, I sat up wondering if John Wayne had had days like this.

     The next time we slowed it was to pass through a village, a narrow road cutting down the middle. Vietnamese, pressed back against huts as the large truck tires rolled by inches away from their bare toes, gazed up fearfully. Others, safe inside, checked us out through windows, or to be precise, holes in the thatch wall. I stared at their empty faces and wondered where the Welcome Wagon was. I had expected shouts of warm reception from the men as they waved bottles of wine in the air. From the women, blown kisses and the joyous flinging of red roses. And wondrous celebration amongst the kiddies. The absence of their gratitude was a shock and I wanted to yell out, “Hey! We’re here to liberate you just like we did the French in double-u double-u two. Don’t you care?”

     But I didn’t, because it seemed they didn’t.

     I was half-dozing in the dark when the truck stopped once more. There was a whispered exchange, the sound of a gate swung open, and then we crept forward. The tires scrunched rock for a short distance, then we stopped and the engine went silent, except for the residual clicking of hot metal. The driver’s door slammed and the truck swayed as he climbed up the side. “You cherries just cool your tool right here,” his dark form ordered. “An NCO will show up to take charge.” He sunk out of sight, then reappeared. “And don’t make any noise if you know what’s good for you.”

     I wanted to ask what the heck was going on, but figured instead to do what was good for me.

     The heaven displayed a million stars, their brilliance obscuring the glow of the moon. In between the unexplored eternity above, and the unknown territory surrounding me below, the sky was lit up with flares. The low clouds and shadowy outlines on the horizon glowed spookily, and muffled echoes of explosions rumbled in the distance. Closer, cannons intermittently spat out their ordnance with earsplitting intensity, the rounds whistling outbound toward their intended targets.

     I heard footsteps on the rock, then a whispered voice spoke from below the rear gate, “You men get down quietly and form up around me.”

     I climbed down with the others and stood close, but it was too dark to see his face let alone discern rank.

     “Now listen up,” he continued. “The camp is on red alert. You marines are going out to perimeter defense positions. Follow me and I will lead you to your fighting holes.”

     Thinking: Whoa! Let’s regroup here, I said, “Sir, we don’t got no ammunition.”

     “Everything you need will be in your foxholes. Ammo, grenades. And food. Now cut the chatter and follow me.”

     He took off at a trot and I followed, the others tromping along behind, as he zigzagged between tents. He seemed to have bat-like sensors that guided him through the maze. But I didn’t, and in the darkness I tripped over a tent guideline and landed heavy. Springing to my feet, I heard the curses of those inside the tent telling me to keep the noise down. In a remote part of my mind, I wondered why dudes were still in their racks when the compound faced attack.

     We passed through the tent area into open ground and picked up the pace. When our guide came to a sudden halt, I ran into him. He reached back and grabbed my shoulder. “You, marine, in this hole. Make no noise or unnecessary movement. When the VC attack it’s going to be right . . . through . . . here. Stay alert. Charlie loves to cut the throats of slackers asleep at their post.”

     Did he say . . . right thru here?

     He squeezed my shoulder, fingers digging in. “And be prepared for the possibility of hand-to-hand combat.”

     Did he say hand-to-hand?

     He disappeared into the gloom with the rest of the pack. I sat down in the hole and stared to my front, looking for recognizable objects. But the inky black gave no inch, a solid wall of nothingness. I put my palm in front of my face.

     Not there.

     I brought it toward me slow, until it touched my nose.

    Thar she blows.

     I dropped it down, groping for supplies. I found a bag with a sandwich stuffed inside, and a few cookies that crumbled when I fingered them.

     But no bullets or frags.

     I hunted again, panic building on a groundwork of anxiety.

     What the—

     I looked in the direction the rest had gone, but they had long since evaporated. I wanted to yell for the honcho, but remembered that noise was a no-no. I stood to chase after them, then hesitated. I damn sure didn’t want to end up lost. Also, to abandon a battle position was a court-martial offense. In boot camp, the drill sergeants had calmly stated that the firing squad was the lesser penalty one would face if one happened to screw up in that fashion.

     I sat back down.

     The sandwich was fatty ham with wilted lettuce on stale white bread. I munched as quietly as I could, imagining an enemy with remote detection ears honing in on my grinding teeth. From my canteen I took a sip of iodine tasting water to wash down the remains stuck in my constricted throat. Sleep weighed on me like soggy clothing and I fought to stay awake, thinking about home.

     The morning I left for Marine Corps recruit training my mother, upset that I had volunteered, made me an abundant breakfast that was impossible to consume completely. When tears filled her eyes as she watched me eat, she turned to busy herself with the dishes. My father ignored me across the table, engrossed in the morning paper. He was of the persuasion that you made your bed, then you slept in it. As I left, I kissed my mother and stated that she not worry, that I could take care of myself. Her smile did not hide her doubt. At the train station, my father shook my hand, and when he let go a twenty was in my palm. When I got to my seat and looked out the window to wave so long, he was nowhere in sight.

     A sound behind me interrupted my reverie. Music, obviously from a jukebox, floated softly on the night air and thinking that the red alert might be over, hence the music, I waited. And waited. And waited some more for someone to appear and give me the all clear. But nobody showed up to relieve me.

     So I daydreamed again, a smile spreading across my face.

     Maryanne was my first, and only, girlfriend. In high school I was shy, and did not have the nerve to ask a girl for a date. Right after I enlisted in the Marine Corps, and was waiting for orders to boot camp, a friend of mine fixed me up with her. I never tried to get past first base with Maryanne, but during the summer of ‘67 we locked a lot of lips at a lot of submarine races. The first time I had ever kissed a girl!

     The night before I was to leave, we sat in my car in front of her house. It was 9:30 P.M.; 10:00 P.M. was her curfew. And mine, up until tomorrow

     We finished swapping our last spit, and she looked at me, green eyes aglow, teeth shiny white. “You promise to write?”

     “Yeah.” My mind was elsewhere, thinking about the great adventure upon which I was about to embark.

     She shook her head, tossing her long, blond hair from her face. “You sure you have my address?”

     When I failed to reply, she elbowed me,”Did you hear what I said?”

     “Yeah.”

     She looked at me quizzically, then opened the car door. “Take care of yourself, Bobby.”

     “Yeah. G’bye Maryanne.”

      I watched her long-legged walk to the door. She opened it, turned to wave, and went in. The door closed, and the porch light went out. Her perfume lingered in the air as I started my car and drove off, having not the faintest inlking as to how our next meeting would turn to disaster.   

     Faint laughter and muffled conversation pulled me again back to the present, and I looked over my shoulder into cavern blackness toward the compound. Shrugging, I focused back on the void to my front thinking that maybe I was imagining all these noises I heard. 

A convulsive yawn that I felt right down to the soles of my feet overcame me. I shook my head, hard, to clear it of flotsam and jetsam, and tried to recall the last time I’d had a decent night’s sleep. Probably back in civilian life, there was no such animal in the Marine Corps.

     Y-e-e-ah, good old sleep. I use ta love it, I was a real slugabed. But not my father. All week he’d be up at four in the morning to go to work. On Saturday, he’d be up at dawn to do fix-ups around the house. And on Sunday, he’d be up early to eat breakfast and go to church. And he’d just have to get me up too, even though I hated — 

     My chin hit my chest, bouncing my skull, flashbulbs popping in my brain. I jerked my head up, sloshing my brain and making myself dizzy. This . . . is . . . ba-a-ad I thought. Asleep at the wheel in a war zone. Immediate court-martial. A steady diet of piss-and-punk in the stockade. Then a BCD.

     Vowing to stay awake no matter what, I focused on my first priority, getting through the night. I set my rifle aside, pulled my bayonet from its scabbard and closed my fist around it . . . then, because I couldn’t see—I listened.

     Aircraft droned overhead in a jet-black sky now devoid of airborne flares, all combatants heretofore seeming to have called it a night. I tried to recall if the enemy had an air force, but wasn’t sure. The Koreans had MIG’s back in the 50’s, and I pictured kamikaze pilots in oversized goggles, mouths a snarl, hurtling my way intent on a nose landing in my fighting hole.

     The mechanized bellowing of track vehicles sounded from a distance, a noisy crescendo that led me to believe that tanks were headed directly at me. I knew the good guys had them, but the Vietnamese? I pictured myself squeezed into my fighting hole staring up wildly at the belly of some tank that had stopped right over me, fluid leaking down from various hydraulic connections. Trapped, walls caving in from the weight of the metal monstrosity, in a slow-filling grave.

     The visions in my mind now exceeding recommended loads, I heard the sound of motion. Subtle maneuvering and covert infiltration, but I couldn’t get a handle on the noise. Hell, growing up in the Midwest the only night moves I heard were the sounds of my parents in the next room snoring. Or my dog in the kitchen lapping at his water bowl or fluffing his rug trying to get more comfortable.

     I tightened my grip on the bayonet till I felt the blood pulsing through my hands. I was ready. Ready to face hordes of attacking foreigners (not realizing that I, in fact, was the foreigner) screaming in bloodthirst—in my mind all looking like Peter Lorre doing Mister Moto.

                                           ——

     Dawn finally broke after what seemed like eons. As daylight crept toward me, objects began to appear. The first thing I spotted was a grouping of hills, the tallest one rearmost and jutting into the sky. Next was a row of buildings that sat at the base of the nearest hill. On one structure, a huge sign proclaimed it the Freedom Hill Cafeteria. The second was lettered the Freedom Hill Exchange. The third the Freedom Hill USO. And last, a stone’s throw away from my hole, stood a twelve-foot cyclone fence peaked with coils of razor wire. I could not believe that it was that close, yet invisible to me all night.

     I rose and stuck my hands into my pockets, a gesture of pure rebellion in the Marine Corps, and said aloud, “If the enemy was going to attack through my position, they’d have to mountain goat those hills, do an end run around that there mall, then pole vault this friggin’ fence!”

     I listened to the dew burning away in the hot morning sun, and thought of all the shit I had been through since I got to this place, less then eighteen hours ago. 

     What kinda war is this?

     I bent over, grabbed the empty paper bag and crumpled it into a ball, then did a jump shot. The pill sailed over the fence in a high arc.

     S-w-i-s--sh! Two points.