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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 of
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 you know beyond ashadow 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, you keep
one eye on him to make sure that he is.
It
is early in the morning hours and all is still. A dew forms
and a chill rips through
your bones while an uneasiness 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
to
be over. Then as suddenly as hell released it's fury the flames subside
and silence
prevails. The air is filled with death and the sounds of the suffering
will be remembered long
after the night is over.
Morning
breaks, we prepare to move on, Choppers are coming and the steady
whipping of their
blades chopping through the air are heard by all but the dead. Today
they will be flying
them out. 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. We watch as they are
carried and loaded onto the chopper and lifted away. We stare until we
can no longer hear the
chopper blades beating out the rhythm of the dead.
We
are ordered to gear up, we stare at each other and without saying a
word, we wonder to
ourselves if we will meet the same fate as those who died in the
darkness...
Skirmish
line,
stagger
em',
move
out!
We
melt slowly into the bush.
We
see the faces and we hear the cries.
They
are painted on our souls.
Gotta
push it back,
push
it back!
Don't
Mean Nuthin...
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