01/08/2026
Vietnam 1968
The heat was heavy and wet, stifling, and persistent. A 22-year-old from Oklahoma walked point. Members from his squad called him Okie or Indian. He was somewhere between a quarter and a half Chickasaw, his skinned deeply tanned by an unremitting tropical sun. Six months in the bush had sculptured his physique down to the bare necessities. His dark arms were lithe and defined and always glistening with a mixed sheen of sweat and moisture. Rain came sporadically, in impulsive erratic deluges, much like the enemy that he was drafted to kill.
In 1964, the year Okie’s son was born, Lyndon Johnson, while running for President as a peace candidate had said, “We are not about to send American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing for themselves.” Of course, when he was elected President, he forgot the words that his speech writer had written to help get him elected.
True, now that he was President, he still wasn’t about to send the wealthy and the well-connected American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to help the Asian boys do what they ought to be doing for themselves, but he was more than willing to send American boys who were poor, marginalized and powerless, and he did. The politicians that voted to draft these working-class plebeians had the luxury of negotiating war from a distance. Dressed in power suits and power ties, the only thing they were worried about killing was time. In Vietnam it was different. There was no negotiating, and there damn sure wasn’t any compromise. It was a zero-sum game, and you learned quickly to kill or be killed.
A year earlier, Okie was making good money painting water towers somewhere in Illinois. Granted, he was blowing it as fast as he made it on women and alcohol, but at 22 years of age with no focused direction, he was spending the currency of youth on the commodities of momentary and mercenary pleasures.
His handsome features belied his shyness, but once the alcohol hit his veins he was transformed into a charismatic extrovert and there wasn’t a woman he couldn’t dazzle. He had left a pretty wife and a three-year-old son in Oklahoma where she had filed for and had been granted a divorce.
They were classmates in high school and had eloped shortly after their senior year. They were a contrast in appearances, he the dark skinned handsome Indian, and she the pale skinned redheaded beauty. They both shared a passion for living that bordered on madness, and there was never any middle ground between them. They were either passionately loving, or violently fighting and at times both at the same time. Their combustible union had produced a son, and like a fertile soil absorbs the rain, their child would spend the first 3 years of his life absorbing the fallout from their explosive personalities.
Newly divorced and living in Illinois, he rolled out of bed sometime around noon after a particularly hard night of drinking. He left in his wake a disheveled bed sheets along with the disheveled woman sleeping beneath them. He stumbled into the kitchen for something to drink and opened the refrigerator door while shielding his hungover eyes from the glow within. Retrieving a glass bottle of coke, he fumbled trough a drawer looking for an opener when he noticed an official looking envelope with his name on it.
He pried the lid on the bottle open letting it fall freely from counter to floor where it spun momentarily like a top before settling next to a flattened cigarette butt. Dehydrated from the alcohol, he took a long drink from the fizzing coke that burned his throat and made his eyes water. He belched, sat the coke aside and opened his mail. Through puffy bloodshot eyes he read, “Greeting: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States and to report at, 301 N.W. 6th Street Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…Suddenly, he was wide awake, and his hangover instantly cured.
*
“Okie, the Lt. wants to see you,” said a freckled faced farm boy from Iowa while tapping his shoulder. “I’ll take point so you can fall back.” They had been walking for hours, and Okie’s thoughts were focused only on what may be in the next clearing or over the next ridge. At times he hacked through thick underbrush and snaking vines with his machete. Initially, the wooden handle created painful blisters between his thumb and index finger, but those had long calloused over and he felt nothing.
He often wished that his nervous system would callous over as well but in Vietnam as soon as you felt at ease, all hell would break lose. He had only been in country for a few months when he realized that life here consisted of long periods of mundane plodding through thick vines and oppressive heat, marked by intense burst of chaos, flooding adrenalin, and death. So far, he had experienced the first two and prayed daily he wouldn’t hit the trifecta.
The Lt. was walking towards the rear of Okie’s squad with his radio man close by. The radioman was hu***ng a PRC 77 and sweating profusely. “Okie, we’re going to run through a village in about 2 klicks. It’s supposed to be friendly, but you know that’s never something to bet on. Keep the column tight and make sure everyone is ready to go if things get crazy.” Okie’s black eyebrows furrowed, and his dark eyes crinkled at the edges as he squinted and replied with a half grin, “Alright sir.” This was the platoon’s third Lt in about 3 months, and this one was particularly jumpy. Okie made his way back to the front to assume walking point again.
Maybe it was an ancestral thing coming from his mother’s strong Chickasaw roots, but whatever its source, he was a natural in the bush. He felt things that were later confirmed by a map and could find passages through the thickest jungles. Okie could also sense when the Viet Cong were close by. The hairs on his neck bristled like the hair on a dog’s back when agitated, and his stomach filled with flutters and tightened. If he wasn’t in the jungle of a hostile enemy, the source may have been an attractive woman or a thrilling Ritter coaster. But here, it was never a welcomed feeling, and he had grown to dread it.
They were descending a small trail that twisted and turned like a lazy snake underneath a canopy of vines and trees filled with screeching birds and mischievous monkeys, and of course the various slithering reptiles. Okie was the first to emerge. He wore only a flack vest and a chain hung from his neck that had a cross, a Star of David, and a tribal talisman. He was in no situation to p**s off anyone’s gods, so he was covering all the deity’s bases.
The strap around the camouflage on his helmet held a bottle of oil that he poured liberally on the bolt in his weapon to keep it from jamming. Jamming with a rock band in a garage stateside could be cool. Jamming in the jungles of Vietnam with your M-16 could be deadly.
There were times when he was in the thick of a fire fight and the oil from his lubricated bolt would splatter onto his face and shoulders. It was so hot that it would create tiny blisters, but that was a small price to pay to ensure that his weapon wouldn’t lock up at the gates of hell.
In his six months in country, he had seen a few men lock up, but never his weapon. His olive drab trousers had absorbed so much sweat and rain that they were fading to black and wilting over the canvas of his jungle boots. He trudged on towards the village as the rest of his squad appeared slowly in his wake like phantoms from a green mist.
The village that Okie’s squad entered was nothing more than hovels made of grass, dirt, and bamboo. They appeared as if the slightest wind could blow them to the ground, but appearances are often misleading. The Vietnamese huts were resilient and strong just like those that had built them.
Most of the Vietnamese were illiterate peasants and farmers by necessity. They were caught up in a civil war that they had no stake in. Regardless of the victor, their plight would most likely stay the same. Ironically, the Americans drafted to fight in their civil war would return home and find that their plights would remain much the same as well.
Smoke drifted lazily in parts of the village as the villagers mulled around fires carrying bamboo and containers of water. They observed the soldiers approaching like a foreboding storm cloud. Small children rushed to their mother’s side and the older ones went inside their humble abodes. Okie’s platoon had no issues with the villagers. Their village just happened to be in the path of their search and destroy mission and to reach their objective, they had to pass through.
Okie’s squad leader caught up with him just before they entered the village. “Okie, listen up. We’re breaking the squad into two teams and sweeping through in two groups.” Staff Sergeant Bermeister stood six feet two and was muscular. Okie looked up from his wiry five eight frame and nodded while winking. There was an unspoken playfulness between them.
In the bush it was time to work, and both were all business, but the military formalities barely cloaked the deep friendship that had developed between them over the past few months. When he was drafted, Okie was painting a water tower in a town in Illinois that Bermeister was from. That was the ice breaker in their friendship, a friendship that had developed quickly and deeply. They trusted each other in the bush, and both knew the other would always have his back, not just with theories and platitudes, but with resolve and action.
When they were at base camp, they shared ci******es and exchanged stories of s*xual conquest, and ass kicking’s. Fu***ng and fighting were two subjects they both knew well. Both were honest enough that they didn’t always make themselves the hero of their stories. Sometimes in their narratives, they were the ones who took the ass whipping and lost the girl. They appreciated the others willingness to be honest and self-effacing. Nothing’s more grating in a platoon than a pretentious prick that takes himself too seriously and remains the hero in every story, even when he has to lie about it. Those types never fare well in an infantry unit but surprisingly do quite well as politicians.
“Bermeister, I had this fat ass cousin named Wally. He was a big ole country boy that we called Big Wall. He was a few years older than me in school, and we saw his car one night down in a pasture close to our house.” Okie and Bermeister were in a tent sitting on army cots facing each other. Both of their tongues were limber from more than a few beers. They shared stories back and forth through the smoke that floated hazily in the air between them. Their ci******es dangled lifelessly from the corners of their mouths and became animated every time one of them talked.
Okie told his story with exaggerated gestures and contorted facial expressions, “Me and a couple of neighbor boys low crawled through the weeds to get close to Big Wall’s car. We knew he was up to somethin down in that pasture and we planned on findin out what it was. It was summer and when we got close, his windows was rolled down. We heard the damndest huffin and puffin you ever heard. Sounded like a goddamned bull. Come to find out, Big Wall was ah fu**in this ole girl everyone called Sneeter. That had to be her nick name because who the hell would name a girl Sneeter?! Ole Wally was just ah going to town but Sneeter wasn’t movin. We heard him say, ‘Hunch Sneeter, Hunch!’ and she said, ‘I can’t move Wally, you’re too big!’ and big Wall said, ‘Well just try and get up then!’ Their heads tilted back in laughter enhanced by the alcohol and Okie’s exaggerated gestures. Okie leaned over and slapped Bermeister’s thigh, “My buddies and me jumped up and pulled a bunch of grass up by the roots in the pasture and went tah stickin em in Wally’s big fat ass!” Laughter erupted once again.
Stories were exchanged between them, each trying to out story the other. Plans were made in between stories well into the night until both of their tongues were thick with alcohol and their eyelids closed defiantly over bloodshot eyes irritated by too much smoke. It was settled. Okie would visit Bermeister’s family in Illinois and then Bermeister would visit Okie’s in Oklahoma. There’s a saying that goes, ‘There’s one that sticks closer than a brother’ and that couldn’t be truer for those that have shared the terrors and challenges of combat. Those bonds last a lifetime severed only in death.
Okie’s squad was halfway through the village, and it felt like they were walking through a pasture of docile cows. Everyone in the village did their best to ignore them and act like nothing was happening. The light infantry squad moved through as if they were saying, “Don’t mind us, we’re just passing through.” Bermeister had checked on Alpha Team and was now shoulder to shoulder with Okie moving with Bravo Team. Suddenly an old woman in black pajamas burst out of a grass hovel carrying a big burlap sack draped over a shoulder. She was in a full out sprint. Bermeister slapped Okie’s shoulder, “Hey, I bet that bitch has the VC payroll!
You go that way and I will try to steer her in your direction!” Okie took off running in the direction Bermeister pointed out. The cross, Star of David, and tribal talisman flailed wildly at the end of his chain. Suddenly, the earth moved beneath his feet like a rolling sea and it felt like a
wave had lifted him high and slammed him violently onto a sandy beach.
Okie was face down in the dirt and his ears filled with a high-pitched screech like a wailing siren. Smoke was everywhere. “What the f**k just happened and where is all that goddamned smoke coming from!?” Okie’s mind was grasping to make sense of the sudden explosion. Villagers scattered like geese off a pond. “Okie, you okay?! hey man! You good?!”
It was a member of Bravo Team kneeling next to him. “What the f**k was that?” Okie said rolling up on his side, “And where is all that damned smoke coming from?” “Sergeant Bermeister stepped on a Bouncing Betty and it set off the smoke grenades on his LCE!” “Did it kill him?” Okie asked in a dead pan voice.
“No, but he’s dying. It blew off his arms and one of his legs. Do you want to see him before he dies?” “F**k no!” Okie exploded. “Do you think I want to see him like that?!”
Okie had recovered and was standing at the edge of the village while a medic looked him over. He could hear the Lt standing over by Bermeister’s body talking on the radio, “We’re
going to need a medivac ASAP! We have one KIA and one wounded.” A numbness washed over Okie’s body. He felt the fatigue that comes not from physical activity, but from a deep loss. The
kind that settles deeply in your muscles and lodges in your bones.
Later that evening Okie’s platoon had set up camp overlooking a small stream. Their perimeter secured, he was now leaning back against a tree and looking toward the western
horizon. A sliver of sun was all that remined of the day and the moon was quickly taking possession of the night. Okie had never noticed so many colors in a sunset. The deepest of blues mixed with brilliant oranges, angry reds, and timid pinks.
He thought of his home on the Oklahoma plains, the sunsets, and the tabletop mountains which were more like flat hills jutting up from the horizon. He thought of a bible verse from his youth, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.’ He thought of his son and ex-wife Livana.
The sky was blue like his son’s eyes and the angry clouds red like Livana’s fiery red hair. He longed for them both. He longed for his friend Bermeister. But most of all, he longed for home.
Chapter 5
Hong Kong 1968
Two bodies appear lifeless between twisted sheets and scattered pillows. From under the mangled covers towards the end of the bed a hairy leg protrudes. A delicate petite arm is exposed and unmoving up towards the headboard. The sun has been up for at least 3 hours, but heavy shades are pulled, and the room is dark and damp like a musty cave. The air smells of stale smoke, fading perfume, and s*x.
A man coughs and rolls from his stomach to his back, a chain with three charms hangs from his neck. He rolls to his side and takes a crumbled pack of Winstons from the nightstand and removes the last cigarette. He lights it and an orange glow blazes brightly in the darkness as he inhales the smoke deeply into his lungs. The brilliance of the orange fades to a soft glow as he exhales. He balances it on the nightstand and turns, “Hey. Hey. You gotta go,” he says brusquely while nudging the lifeless co**se to life. She’s barely 18, looks 13 and speaks broken English, but she knows the routine well. Somethings require few words.
He paid upfront and she performed a service. It was a completed transaction, and nothing more. He remembers little of the exchange. It’s shadowy like a vague dream or flashing images illuminated by a strobe light in a dark room. Her shapely legs swing free from the sheets as she stands leaving the carnage behind her.
She bends over to gather what few clothes she was wearing when it all began. Over her shoulder the orange glow fluctuates between a smoldering ember and a bright flame. He watches her dress in the darkness, and his lust begins to burn again like the glowing tip on his cigarette. He leans across and grabs her wrist and attempts to pull her back down into chaos. “No! No! You pay! You pay!” she says and pulls her wrist free. He extinguishes the last vestiges of light from his smoke into a Coor’s bottle cap on the nightstand.
He rummages through his pants on the floor and retrieves the first bill he finds, a withered ten-dollar bill. It could have been a one-dollar bill or a hundred-dollar bill, lust never differentiates. It only seeks satisfaction and knows nothing about economics. “Here!” he says not hiding his frustration. As soon as her hand takes the money, his hand takes her wrist and pulls her back down into the jumbled madness. There’s no love or tenderness. It’s a primal urge that needs scratching and she’s just a tree that he rubs against. Devoid of witty banter or romance, it’s violent, frenzied and ends almost before it begins.
He rolls back towards the nightstand and reaches for his Wintsons. Sticking a finger inside, he fishes for a smoke. With his lust and his last cigarette spent, he realizes the pack is empty. Crumbling it tightly in his fist he curses and throws it into darkness. The light from the hallway flashes momentarily, and he shields his eyes from the sudden brightness.
The door to his room slams and darkness returns. He is alone again. Three empty beer bottles are shaken in succession to see which contains the most residue. He turns one up and sucks a mouthful of backwash, swallows hard and falls back into bed. He stares up at the ceiling through lifeless bloodshot eyes and feels as empty as the scattered beer bottles on the floor. His R&R concludes today, and he flies back to Vietnam. He remembers tomorrow is his birthday. He is turning 23 but feels as old as the stained carpet in the cheap lust hotel that he languishes in.
***
Back to Nam
The Chopper banks hard left, levels up, and hovers before landing and sending dust and debris scattering three hundred and sixty degrees. It’s returning with some much longed for mail, replacement soldiers, and a few soldiers returning from R&R. Okie is the first off the bird, and he’s met by a tall lanky northeastern Yankee named Bo**er. Regardless of his facial expressions, happy or sad, there’s a perpetual goofiness stretched across his face that eclipses all other emotions. “About time you brought your ass back Indian.” “Yeah, well my ass wouldn’t be back if I had anything to do with it.” They head for a large olive drab tent, one among many at the forward operating base. “Did ya get any Hong Kong pussy?” Before Okie can answer he adds, “Hope you didn’t have to pay for it.” Okie laughs while replying, “Bo**er, we all pay for it one way or another.” Bo**er nods in agreement, smiles slyly and says, “Some more than others.”
They arrive at their tent and Okie stores what few things he has as Bo**er continues to talk, “Well, you returned just in time. We’re about to hit the bush again. We have a new squad leader too. He came over from Alpha company.” Okie feels a stab of pain in his gut. He knows why they have a new squad leader and who he’s replacing. He has tried to forget about everything on leave, but the past has a way of catching up with you in the most unexpected ways. “What’s he like?” Okie asks mockingly “Well he damn sure ain’t no Bermeister, but he’s a good guy. Actually, carries a bible and doesn’t curse the way we do.” Okie shakes his head and replies with a hint of sarcasm, “Well, maybe he can pray our ass out of the next fire fight we get into.” He flops down on a cot and sighs deeply, “I’m still recovering from a f**ked-up hangover.” Bo**er walks over to his footlocker and returns with a hand full of white crosses. “Here take a couple of these before we hit the bush and it will get your s**t right, and quick.” Okie takes the pills and stores them away for later.
That evening just outside their tent, Okie and the other members of his squad listen as their new squad leader gives a briefing on their new OPORD. “Welcome back Okie, I’ve heard you’re a natural in the bush, and I’m going to have you walking point on this one. It’s a search and destroy mission, but they’re still working out some logistical details and when I get a confirmation on when the choppers arrive, I will let you all know. Make sure you get some chow and have your gear ready. It shouldn’t be too long before we move out.”
Okie and Bo**er walk towards the mess tent, “Okie, goddammit you’re getting short man. How much time do you have left, a month, maybe two?” “One month four days and a wake up,” comes Okie’s firm reply. “Damn man you’re a lucky sumbitch, I have eight months left in this s**t hole.” “Yeah, well depending on how this next mission goes, we both could be leaving a lot sooner in a couple of body bags.” Bo**er grimaces and ducks his head a little, “Goddamn Indian, you sure returned with a sunny disposition. Remind me not to call you if I’m thinking of hanging my fu**ing self.” They both laugh, but their laughter is drowned out by the sound of approaching choppers. Like the salivating of Pavlov’s dog, just the sound of choppers overhead sends surges of adrenalin coursing through their veins and contractions cascading like waves through their stomachs.
***
Back in the Bush
Okie and Bo**er sit facing each other in an opened door Huey. Riding with them are three muscular black men with stoic faces and two rural farm boys who look to be about 15 years old at the most. They all come from different geographical locations and diverse backgrounds, but socioeconomically they are all the same, poor working class blue collar. When their draft notices came, they had no choice but to go. For them there were no student deferments, bone spurs, asthma, or high-powered fathers to keep them from the fray. While the well-connected stayed at home and postured to become better connected, they were sent to the jungles of southeast Asia where they postured to stay alive.
Their helicopter lifted skyward before falling off the side of a mountain like a seal flopping off an iceberg into the sea. It descended rapidly towards the floor of a deep heavily vined valley. Okie’s first day in country and his first time in a chopper, he thought he was dead before the enemy had a chance to kill him. He had no experience in a helicopter, much less with terrain flying.
Okie’s first experience began with a sudden drop in elevation that he just knew would end in a fiery ball of flames at the bottom in the valley, but at the last possible second, the pilot pulled up on the collective bringing the nose of the chopper level with the jungle’s surface. Okie slowly opened his eyes to see the chopper skimming smoothly over treetops like a stone across water. The air on his face never felt so exhilarating and after resigning his fate in the fiery inferno of a helicopter crash, Okie never felt so grateful just to be alive. Stripped of all frivolities juxtaposed with the prospect of death, life is precious on its own and needs no supporting cast.
The choppers long departed, and Okie’s squad makes its way through the thickest parts of the jungle on one of the hottest days he could remember. He walks point again and Bo**er is close behind. It’s their third day in the bush, and they haven’t made contact with anything but a few playful monkeys in the trees overhead. The heat and monotony have conspired to lull his platoon into a lethargic stupor. Many of the men have checked out hours ago and are off somewhere in their minds with wives, girlfriends, or at a favorite fishing hole. Okie feels the hair raise on the back of his neck and his stomach constrict. He doesn’t see anything, but he certainly feels it. He holds his hand up to halt movement.
Into to the void of the stifling heat and the mundane slogging through vines and branches comes the enemy’s fire rushing in like flames down a hallway. Okie recognizes the sounds of the enemy’s AK 47’s burping out lethal projectiles that pierce and snap the air. Branches overhead begin to rattle and shake as if animated by sudden gust of wind. The AK can be distinguished from the M-16 by its sound. It is reminiscent of a baritone opera singer while the M-16 sounds more like a higher pitched tenor. The jungle is suddenly full of operatic volleys calling back and forth like frenzied birds mating.
Okie knows in an instant that this isn’t some makeshift ambush from a few ragtag Viet Cong, but a well-organized, highly motivated detachment of NVA. Their fire power is overwhelming and most of Okie’s squad along with the rest of his platoon are pinned down. The volley ratio is at least 4 to 1 in favor of the NVA. Bo**er makes his way low crawling up to Okie’s flank and takes up a firing position behind a tree where he sits flat on his ass with his legs spread eagle around the trunk. Okie screams over the chaos, “Goddammit Bo**er get your ass down. That tree’s no kind of cover!” Bo**er either ignores his buddy’s admonition or doesn’t hear it, but either way he just keeps firing his M-16 impulsively into the jungle towards a faceless enemy.
Rounds start to kick up dirt around Okie’s position like a predator sniffing out his prey. The drone of the AK-47’s are steady and unrelenting. In previous engagements there was always some give and take, and Okie had had time to give back as much as he was taking. But today, he and the rest of his squad are doing all of the taking except for Bo**er who is somewhere over to his left spitting out sporadic bursts of M-16 fire.
The smell of gunpowder and fear fill Okie’s nose and is about to burst the damn and send floods of adrenalin rushing down through ravines of panic. He’s been scared plenty of times before, but fear at least leaves you room to operate, to think, to function to some degree. Panic on the other hand rushes in and takes over. It overwhelms you, shuts you down, and smothers your thoughts into a molten flow of surging adrenalin. Your higher executive functioning goes offline, and your primal reptile brain switches on. Okie’s options are down to three…fight, flight, or freeze, and since the first two are negated by the enemy’s superior fire power, he freezes in place, buries his face in the jungle floor, and prays.
“I’m going to die! I’m going to fu**ing die! So close to going home, but I’m going to die in this f**ked up jungle!” The sounds of war are unremitting as dirt and branches dance all around him to the rhythm of the NVA’s AK 47’s. “God! God! Please get me out of here!? Please let me see my family again! If you get me out of here, I will do anything you tell me to do! I will live my life better I promise. Please God, just get me out of here, please let me go home. I don’t want to die. I want to see my family again!” His praying is interrupted from screams coming from his six.
“Okie! Okie! Pull back! Get the f**k back! We have fighters on station, and they’re dropping bombs!” Okie rolls to his side and looks up as the roaring sound of jet engines replace the persistent staccato of AK 47 gunfire. Two Phantom F4’s approach dropping from the sky like eagles vying for a terrified rabbit that’s frozen in place. Okie feels like the rabbit. The Phantoms drop their ordinance and like synchronized swimmers begin climbing skyward.
He's convinced that the incoming bombs have his name written on each one and as they make their final approach, Okie goes face down and braces for impact. At least it will be over quickly, and he will return home in a flag draped coffin or at least what is left of him. Maybe God is answering his prayer and sending him home, just not alive. Somewhere to his front there’s a rapid succession of thumps and rumbles. The ground shakes and rattles with reverberating tremors and then there is silence.
Okie takes one of the deepest breaths of his entire life and exhales. He takes another, and another, and another. He’s alive. The vines and thick foliage that were obscuring his vision to the front are no more. All that remains are smoking tree stumps and what appears to be a low hazy fog hovering just above the ground, a solemn blanket covering the dead. “Yes! They smoked those motherf**kers!” comes an enthusiastic comment from somewhere behind him. Okie gets to his feet and notices Bo**er still leaning against the tree.
“Bo**er! Bo**er! You good man?” He adjusts his gear and makes his way towards his friend. “Hey man, those f**kers knew what they were doing! They cleared it out for us didn’t they?!” Just a few steps from Bo**er, and he comes to a stop. Looking down he notices a darkening bulge spreading in the fatigues of Bo**er’s crotch area. He has taken a round to his groin area, and his sc***um is filling with blood like an overinflated balloon stretching the fabric of his fatigues. His eyes are open and lifeless staring off into a dimension that Okie can no longer see. A tear drop streaks from each eye like moisture from a gray sky. Wherever Bo**er is at in this moment, it isn’t Vietnam.
Rats in a tunnel
The Lt. was standing in vines waist deep and had removed a covering of grass and mud that revealed a dark tunnel leading to who knew where. The Vietcong had perfected the tunnel system going back to the late 40’s in the Indo China war against the French Colonials. Elaborate ecosystems expanded below ground used for protection against American bombings as well as command post, hospitals, and ambushes. There was only one way to know where a tunnel led and who may be lurking in the darkness. You had to send someone below surface and those someones were known as tunnel rats.
“Send Okie up here,” the Lt. said to his radioman. Okie was getting short on his combat tour and wasn’t walking point as often. His odds of living were greatly improved walking at the back of the column than at the front. Okie, along with the other men are traipsing through the jungles on yet another search and destroy mission, and all are hoping they can beat the odds and make it back home to their families.
“Okie! You’re wanted up front!” came the command being relayed back down the line. Okie flinched and cursed under his breath. He damn sure wasn’t in any mood to walk point today. The Lt. had assured him he would only have him walk point if they needed his expertise in clearing a path or navigating a river. Okie walked up beside the Lt. and realized by the look on the Lt’s face that it wasn’t point he wanted him to walk, but a tunnel he wanted him to crawl.
He had been below surface before and each time he felt it aged him 10 years, and at 23 he was beginning to feel 70. He prayed this would be his last trip into darkness. The Vietcong respected the tunnel rat’s courage and tenacity, and it was this respect that caused them to set traps of poison vipers, scorpions, and Punji sticks made of bamboo soaked in human f***s. As soon as the tunnel rat was lowered below, his nervous system was idling red-hot in anticipation of the horrors he may encounter. Armed with only a knife, flashlight and an M1911 A-1 pistol the tunnel rat would make his way carefully through a labyrinth of dark tunnels filled with sudden surprises that made a haunted house feel like a walk in the park.
Okie didn’t hesitate. He wanted to get it over with and hopefully be another day closer to going home. He handed his M-16 to the Lt. took his flashlight and A- 1 pistol and prepared to be lowered into darkness. Two men held his legs and eased him down headfirst into the tunnel’s passageway, and suddenly he was gone, swallowed by an angry earth. Okie immediately recognized the smell of damp soil, and it reminded him of the storm cellars back in Oklahoma where you went to escape from the tornados that terrorized the plains. In the tunnels there were no tornadoes, but the terror was always there waiting. Around each bend your anticipation ramped up for contact with an enemy that was more brutal than Oklahoma twisters and just as deadly.
Okie passed through a tight passageway on all fours and was entering an area that allowed for additional movement. He was now crouching and creeping with trepidation towards a turn up ahead that he illuminated with his flashlight. The walls appeared moist, and glistening and Okie could hear his breath and heartbeat echoing down the corridor before him. When he reached the turn, he went back down on all fours and crawled slowly to the cut back. He rose to his knees and held the flashlight high above his head and slowly moved his 45 caliber around the corner with his eyes wide and following close behind.
The flashlight’s beam pierced the darkness revealing a Viet Cong soldier leaning against the tunnel wall. Okie’s reptilian lower brain pulled his head back before his executive frontal lobes could engage but it caught up quickly and sent a signal with the speed of light to his trigger finger that began pulling in rapid succession. The 45 awakened with a roar sending rounds indiscriminately down the passageway. The tunnel enhanced the percussion and the muzzle flash danced off the clay walls like lightning strikes in the night, and then there was silence.
Okie’s breathing was rapid and shallow. The tunnel’s poor ventilation enhanced the acrid smell of gunpowder that filled his nose like the ringing filled his ears. He had no idea how many rounds he had fired off. One pop turned into two and then into three blurring the lines between the disciplined three round burst and the panic induced knee jerk discharges.
Okie had pulled back around the corner and held his flashlight low between his legs. The tunnel was dark again and silent. From up top, the Lt hollered into the hole, “Okie, what the f**k?! Give me a SITREP!” Okie, leaned around the corner again with his 45 at the ready and shined his flashlight on the VC against the wall. He hadn’t moved. In fact, he was in the exact position, he was unmoving and lifeless. Lifeless because he was dead, and Okie could tell by the bloating and coloring in his face that he had been dead for a few days. “I’m good sir! All clear down hear. I just killed a dead man.”
