ON THEIR BEHALF

It is true that, here to for, I have told few war stories. I suppose that it is because I feel it counter­productive to dwell on negative experiences. I did however, relate one to an individual of short acquaintance last night in a bar as the subject of the Vietnam war came up, which we discussed at length.

 Though there is no excuse for the inhumane acts of mankind upon itself, I do feel that theirs are those milestones which represent turning points in our lives which if not contained by reason, cast our existence on a pertinacious path. Here is the story as related to me in a bar in Vung Tao Vietnam in 1969.

 

On through the dense jungle

they plodded and plied

While slapping damn bugs

that gnawed at their hide.

With water and rations

and the ammo they knew

They would surely be using

before they were through.

 

The jungle seemed still as

the mist from the sky

That floated on downward

to those who might die.

But still they drove onward

Through gullies and swamp

Without any band for

fanfare or pomp.

 

A snap from the green

that spread it’s broad face

Caused the gaunt point man

to slacken his pace

Then fall on his belly

with rifle so poised

To blow straight to hell

another such noise.

 

Through the increasing rain

their hearts they could hear

As they pounded a rhythm

that mimicked their fear

For all were on edge

in warn jungle togs

That blended in well like

so many odd logs.

 

Their faces so painted as

an Indian might

To kill the V.C. and

Quite relish the fight.

 

Moments passed like hours

on the face of a clock

And now all the brave boys

were ready to rock.

 

Through the dense under—foliage,

           an island of green,

A grenade arched and tumbled

as though in a dream.

For scant moments each life

flashed past their eyes

And each said a prayer

To the gods in the sky.

 

“Grenade!” Shouted Johnston,

the lanky point man,

And every man jack

Hit hard the wet land.

Somehow frozen in time

it all stood quite still

While every man there

succumbed to the chill.

 

A deafening explosion

overpowered the rain

And hauntingly echoed

death’s harsh refrain.

 

“Come to me doggie, come to me grunt.

Come to your fate, come to the front.”

 

Before the grenade landed

their fire was dispersed

And sang harsh to the green

            the song they’d rehearsed.

 

“Kill a commie for Mommy

you bastards of night,

Come eat of my dream

of led bite by bite.

Come meet your maker

if such you believe

But die bastard die

so your mommy can grieve,”

 

After seconds of firing

the silence returned

But Johnston, the point man,

remained unconcerned

For now he would truly

recede from this war

‘Cause now, corporal Johnston,

            could fight on no more.

  

Another snap in the jungle

           and again weapons fired

As the remaining six men

            swiftly retired

Back to the gully where

            safe cover was found

Except Corporeal Johnston,

            now dead on the ground.

 

The first Sergeant signaled   

            to Mercer and Mike

To advance the left flank

            and fire as they like.

Through the mud and the blood

            trudged the two men

Ever conscience that life

            was a fight to the end.

 

Mercer caught sight of

           a  reflected glint

And steadily issued his

            rifles lament.

They heard screams from the scrub

            near the point man

Then spied more movement

            and ripped them again.

 

More screams from the commies

            bound by the brush

Then the Sergeant  and Lacy

            held triggers flush.

Sarge, Lacy and Tommy

            and their sixty Frank

Advanced bit by bit

            and fired from the rank.

 

Mercer, Mike and the Sarge

            joined all the rest

And merged at the point where

            they'd done their best.

They all looked down at

            the bloody affair,

The too young, the old

            that died without care.

 

Sarge took his machete

            and cut off their heads

Then sliced open their bellies

            and hacked at their reds.

He strewn their guts in a rage

            all over the place

While in red, black and blue

            shown crazy his face.

 

 

"Your heads for the point man I lost

And your guts for whatever it cost."

On and on he hacked at them

Until at last they were not men.

 

They were not human by any means

Except perhaps in dreadful dreams.

 

The sarge, in anger and blood thirst

May seem to typify the worst

But he did not hate those who were dead

Or blame the Commies because they’re red,

 

He hated what they made him be

And as I look back, it seems to me,

God forgives those who by design

Stand upon that thin red line.

~Robert E Browne~ 

 

“People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence  ON THEIR BEHALF.” 

-  George Orwell