Another War Story

Okay, so with a new year I'm going to try a few resolutions. They seem pretty simple and I feel they will make me happy. My three resolutions are: 1.) Read more 2.) Travel more & 3.) Write more. That third one means I'm going to actually set a goal to have a new blog up every week.

So far, this seems feasible because I have a great new idea for a short story. I really want to give a hint but I feel it would ruin the surprise of the story. Also, I've got a lot on my mind and writing would be very therapeutic.

However, as promised I transcribed and edited a short story creative piece from my junior year of high school. Reading it over I really do think I did a good job. In fact, I may have become a worse writer since my junior year of high school... anyways I hope you all enjoy.

Another War Story (based on The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien)

By Chris Walker

Whenever someone talks to a war veteran from any war, that person hears the same response from that veteran. The quote is always, “War is hell kid.” Not until after the experience of war do I believe this is true. My name is John Bell. My name has a nice ring to it, or at least that’s the response I get after I introduce myself. Humor isn’t much on the battlefield except it’s everything that keeps a person sane. My life wasn’t always this traumatic. Heck, my life was fine.

After three years of ROTC back in high school I took the advantage of enlisting early and reaping the benefits of entering the army as a Private 1^st class. My commanding officers said that I showed tremendous skill with a rifle and the always-needed leadership skill. So, after boot camp, basic training, and some very small non-violent missions out in the middle of nowhere I became a Corporal. Finally, I had an officer ranking. All those after-school special life experiences were but a small prelude to a rated R terror on the approach.

The year 1965 lives now in infamy. The Vietnam War begins its “Operation Rolling Thunder” and America begins a nationwide slaughter of its young men. My views can be expressed against it because –as someone can easily guess- I was sent in to the battle. Being as I am that of a slightly more than mediocre soldier, the base waits a while to send me in but not too long. The time was a little over three years to be precise. I spent some time at home saying goodbye to my girlfriend and packing up some gear before I went.

On my way to the bus I almost left behind my rabbit’s foot. Luck may or may not be true but I would rather have luck on my side than not. Little time passes and I am shipped across the globe to lead a small company of small soldiers. I immediately noticed I had mostly lower class, poor kids from small towns out in Nebraska or whatever. I also noticed most of those poor kids were colored, but there wasn’t many. A little group led by a little man.

We manage to survive for quite some time without any combat. If we should have any trouble we should be close to Alpha Company led by Jimmy “Jesus” Cross. My company called him that because of how harsh he takes his mistakes. He did that almost to avoid his soldiers from carrying the burden themselves. The average soldier has enough to carry already.

The down time doesn’t seem like much now, but I wish I could’ve had more. The peace couldn’t have lasted long because I did find myself depending on Alpha Company.

One night outside the city of Than Khe my company was ambushed. A person couldn’t see a better light show at a planetarium. The cool grass chilled my ankles and the trees spoke in long whistles, but neither the trees nor the crunch of the grass could muffle the clank of guns over a small hill off a few meters away. My company armed itself and prepared for the worst. The Vietcong charged. Immediately two privates beside me, who were the best of friends, let out a hellacious war cry and jiggled to the vibrations of their M-16’s, but the numbers were against them. As great as they were, these soldiers are no more than statistics now. That fact checks for the rest of my group too, excluding me.

Before anyone can think harshly or criticize me, anyone should know this one fact: Shooting is different than killing. Paper targets don’t fight back, and paper targets don’t have families and kids.

No more than ten seconds after shouting the two kids – just kids – fall as a bloody pile to the foggy, dew covered grass. The water on the ground ran red with blood. Sparks and bullets streaked the sky like a violent fireworks show but wasn’t pretty at all. Frightening was a more accurate description. Soldiers on both sides fell like dominoes. I only know because I heard the crash. I don’t know why, but I ran. Ran for cover, ran for luck, or just ran away from the war. I didn’t want this. I wanted the salary. I wanted a home for my future wife and maybe some kids of my own. A boy named John Bell Jr. and a little brother that would look up to him.

The bugs and stark conditions were unpleasant enough in Vietnam. I could carry the aches and pains. I could carry a few soldiers struck down from a snake’s venom across a mucky river but know that weight can tire a man quickly and callously. I was too tired to lift my gun against another human. I guess someone else should’ve led the platoon. Cowardice and all, I sprinted behind the trees. The dark sky roofed the roads and kept out the light and attacking band of Vietcong. No one chased me, but I kept running.

There’s a sense of freedom when running. So, I kept at it until my legs felt detached from my body, until I could no longer feel aches, until I was no longer in Vietnam but somewhere where death didn’t take innocent people, and it was safe for a child to run like I could. However, I couldn’t escape the grasp of war. Gravity held me tightly. I stopped. I hunched over and tried to regain my breath. I kept gasping for air. I was choked with suffocation. Back and forth my lungs expanded and collapsed. Then, then I passed out face down in the ground.

I awoke with mud sloshed over my cheek. The sunlight could barely permeate the space between the trees. Beside the trees were a range of green mountains. I suppose I could’ve appreciated the sight more if I didn’t have my mind wasn’t boiling. The whole night I dreamt the nightmare of the prior night. Only in my dream, I was the only one in my company on the battlefield. The Vietcong wanted to kill me, just me. The sounds of screaming bodies echoed around me as if an entire flock of geese were shocked in one strike of lightning. That’s where the dream ends – with screaming. I finally rose to my weary feet and pressed onward.

I ambled slowly in one direction. I couldn’t tell if my direction was North, South, or even forward or right-side-up. I suppose what attracted me to that direction was the smoke between the trees. I could hear popping sounds and small drops of liquid somewhere beyond the forest. The smell of moss clogged my nostrils and left a small headache to my right frontal lobe. I was still drowsy and sore all over, but all the physical pain and my heavy eyelids would pass shortly.

Like cannons were fired two inches to the left of me I heard a vociferous boom. Darker smoke blanketed the air while red liquid mushroomed in a small circumference as the sun spotlighted tossed pieces of human flesh that levitated into giant vines and vegetation. I turned away, looked back, and turned away again. Death was in the air now and anyone could smell it. Death smells like cooked flesh and rotten eggs tossed into a pot filled with urine. Death isn’t a bundle of roses but the average man sure as hell can recognize it. I paused in my strolling and held my collapsed jaw.

A fair sum of time would pass with no sound or movements in the distance. The smoke would clear but the horrid smell would stay. I didn’t want to rush in and die on that land mine’s twin, but a metaphorical bell rang in my head to tell me that Alpha Company must be basing operations here in the forest enclosed in the mountains. I’d have to approach slowly in case I was mistaken. My rabbit’s foot made sure I wasn’t. Using some binoculars in my pack, I saw two men talking and another weeping over a letter as well as many other men. My vision caught onto Jimmy “Jesus” Cross who was still staring at the same picture of his sweetheart Martha. I learned of here when I first met the guy. My gut told me it was safe, and any soldier knows to trust his gut feeling.

I approached Lieutenant Cross, saluted, and explained my situation. He reacted calmly and made me a temporary part of his company. I learned that the two men talking were Mitch Sanders and Tim O’Brien. They were telling each other different war stories. Mitch was a smart guy. Some of his stories and logic were quite profound. Mitch was quite the intellectual. I could also hear Bob Kiley sobbing. No one could blame him for being upset; apparently the dead soldier and Bob were best friends. Reminded me of the two soldiers with which I was I traveling. I was forced to remind myself of the ruthless truth that people die in wars. About that time nausea sank in and I had to hurl. I felt a little better afterwards.

The squadron of guys camped for the rest of the night. Ironically, I could sleep fine when drowning in mud, but with the security of surrounding soldiers I stayed awake wandering in my memories. There is never any peace in war. If there is we call it down time and recognize that we are only in the eye of a gruesome storm. Death is hard to witness I suppose. The smell it leaves causes nausea and the sight is a dark poetry. We tell the family of a soldier that their son or brother is in a better place, but no one knows. War is hell and so much more. Anywhere has got to be better than here in Vietnam. I wondered if the Vietcong send letters home. I come to find out that Bob Kiley never got a letter back. I’d end up writing a lot of letters myself.

When a landing zone was cleared I finally got taken out of Alpha Company and taken to somewhere safe. I would be known as the only soldier in the whole war not to kill somebody. Where would I be now if I did? Would I be here? I don’t think I could kill a man; just like I don’t think I’ll ever truly leave Vietnam. Forty years later and in the new millennium, I don’t think anyone can ever leave the past behind him or herself. I saw so much in Vietnam but couldn’t see everything. I read somewhere that 1.6 percent of the veterans who survived Vietnam committed suicide. I heard we suffered over 50,000 casualties and the Vietcong suffered even more. Statistics are amazing. Statistics sum up everything in an event, but no one wants to be a statistic. Nobody wants to disappear, but soldiers in Vietnam would disappear while only a few reappeared. Even those that returned had nowhere to go. Soldiers would become faceless names on a wall.

I read somewhere that a “true war story never ends.” How can someone close a story that involves something as startling as war? I read in that same place that “War is hell, but that’s not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love.” I’ll carry this story until the end of time.

PS The statistics in the story are dated but I do recall looking them up. Also, the quote at the end is from Tim O'Brien's work as well as every character from Alpha Company. I highly recommend picking this book up if you didn't read it in high school... and if you did, fuck, read it again!