In Another Time and Place

G H O S T S

Clouds sail serenely on by, puffs of wispy cotton in a far-off dreamy blue sky.

Sunlight beams down on the muddy brown below, shadows shifting, flitting

Among green strands in every kind of a riot of growth, the jungle primeval.

 

Hold! Quiet! Shhhhhh!

 

A moment stretches out into the vastness of time, lifetimes seem to pass,

Breaths shallow and quietly raspy, in, out, in, tension so thick to even dull

New machetes, nerves so tight a single sound would make them snap in pieces.

 

Eyes! Ears! Check it out!

 

What had been almost a pleasant stroll in a garden gone wild and dangerous,

Is on the brink of brutally savage and impersonal, inhuman violence, waiting

As fingers that are run up, then down, triggers, grips loosen, then tighten.

 

Click! Snap! What was that?

 

A figure stands in the undergrowth, all in black, barely visible in the shadows.

Another rises from a clump of bushes, a cone hat like the bushes themselves.

The sticks in their hands raise, transforming into flames as beautiful blossoms.

 

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-rat! Rat-rat-a-tat!

 

The all-too familiar death rattle of a Kalishnikov spits out rows of angry bees,

Swarming now from every side, the tinny clatter of M-16 answering as we all

Seek whatever shelter we can, returning fire, amid the karumph of grenades.

 

Drop! Duck! Cover! Return fire!

 

Randy, the BAR man, and his loader, chop the vegetation, searching for hidden

Charlies, the unseen body of the ambushers, who wait for the first break in fire,

To unleash their own furies, rushing the line, as we have learned, too painfully.

 

Phone! Red Ranger 9! Gimme some fire support!

 

Manny takes a bad hit to his leg, a fountain of blood spraying over Danny, both

Friendly rivals at baseball, on our off time. Danny calls “Medic”, pulling his Aid Kit

To slap a field dressing onto Manny’s leg, then popping an ampoule into his thigh.

 

Stay down! Keep low! Direct your Fire!

 

Danny rolls Manny over, his gray-brown face already blank from shock and the

Morphine, as his life seeps into the muddy soil. The medic crawls up, darting from

Tree to bush, taking over care, now, disregarding bullets flying from every angle.

 

Phone! Red Ranger 9! Hot pick-up to go!

 

Georgie, always with a good joke ready, pops smoke, throwing it into the clearing,

He raises just a hair too much and takes a 7.62 mm round to the chest, falling back.

Billy, the medic, tries to get to him, as he whispers “Anna” to that clear blue sky.

 

Medic! Medic! Cries from Two sides!

 

The L.T. is scrambling over to check on his platoon sergeant, these two are who we

Look to for guidance and instructions, just 21 and 30, much too young to be old this

Fast and furiously, but on them all eyes are flicking toward, seeking the way out.

 

Phone! Arty! W.P.! W. P.!

 

I am screaming into the handset, at the F O, to get me some mail, right damn now!

He’s busy telling me my coordinates are wrong, and I’m yelling, “Don’t worry, because

In another five minutes, it won’t matter anyway,” and he says, “It’s your funeral, pal!”

 

Ka-Blam! Blam! Ker-Whomp! The earth vibrates!

 

The mail falls just short of landing right on top of our ragged little line, but Charlies

Got his nerve up, to come in close, to finish us off, and they catch it right in the face,

Disappearing in flashes of fire, bas the arty finishes its 30 mile race to get there first.

 

W. P.! W. P.! Same place, gimme all you got and make it snappy!

 

The jungle erupts in a spasm of evil fire, a fire so hot water just boils when poured on it,

The only way to even slow it down is to pack it with mud, bloody mud, and keep your head

Lower than your belly button, as Hell itself opens the gates and comes spilling out!

 

Quiet! Sudden and deep! Moans, pleas to Mama, Lord!

 

The enemy still alive after the last Arty salvo, has melted back into the jungle

The wounded cry and curse, regardless of language, and the L.T. has blood smeared

Across his face, one arm dangles at his side, a long bloody rip in his fatigue jacket.

 

Whomp-Whomp-Whomp-Whomp-!

 

The medevac bird comes circling in,watching our smoke, the door-gunner hanging off

The skid, his 50-cal swinging back and forth alert to any remaining threat, keeping

His pilot safe as these crazy angels in green swoop down to pick up our wounded.

 

Call out! Who’s in the worst shape?

 

Billy, still moving from patient to patient, closes Manny’s eyes, his baseball shoes

Now hung up forever, then moves on to Georgie, and signals the medics with a rolled

Stretcher, before rushing over to Dick, the Platoon Sergeant, propped against a tree.

 

Report! Who’s still walking?

 

Billy tells him two dead, one probable, two seriously wounded, including the Sergeant

Who took three rounds in a neat pattern across his abdomen, but Dick waves him off,

Worried more FOR the L.T., on his first combat patrol, supposed to be a cakewalk.

 

Load this man!, And these two!

 

The L.T. sits as Billy slaps a sucking wound dressing on Dick, he has suddenly grown

From 21 to age-old in less than 15 minutes in an unholy baptism of fire, watching his

Sergeant loaded on the chopper, now in a rush to leave, a gunship above to keep post.

 

Red Ranger 9! Patchme thru to the aid station!

 

We have two KIA and three serious WIA inbound and bleeding, the rest are walking.

We need a dust-off ASAP, then the L.T. takes the phone and gives an after-action

Report to the C.O., citing the brave and the dead, all the while ignoring his own pain.

 

Digger, take the point! Get a perimeter!

 

We’ve got a ride coming in, a baby Huey, so ugly it’s beautiful, coming to collect

What’s left of 2nd Squad, 1st Platoon, and their borrowed RTO, eight men still

Walking, leaving the green jungle, blood-red muddy ground, rising into the blue.