for the sake of God and Country, I

by Tara Williams

 

January in Vietnam isn't pretty

it's hotter than July back home

and smells worse than a damn chicken house

but we were there anyway

for the sake of god and country

and tried to make the best of it

there were days when we couldn't say our own names

and could barely keep our sights trained on

the bush and Charlie in front of us

Those were the good days

others, we would watch the dead and dying

rot out of their own flesh and uniform

and we could see that fabled flag of hope

on their sleeves

and know that they would never be sent home

to momma wearing it

that flag would be torn off

and treated like it and the child wearing

it were nothing

and eventually

we began to believe that it really was

nothing

and we were nothing

and were in the middle of that

vast viney jungle

for no reason

and there was no point in living anymore

but we had our orders

and we had to follow them

and if sarge said to burn those

children out of their homes, we did.

and if we had to kill helpless old women

to keep out location secret, so be it.

we were supposed to be there to save

them

and we couldn't save them, anymore

than we could save ourselves

there was a black boy in my platoon

who was his momma's only son

and I was holding his head the day

he died

and when he looked up at me that

short last time

he told me that, during the draft

his number had almost been swapped

because he was an only son

until the draft board found out he was black

he shipped out the next day

and he realized he wasn't mad anymore

because if he had to go home, it might

as well be in a body bag

so his momma couldn't see what a

hardened, loveless bastard he'd become

and then his eyes rolled back in his head

and his last breath touched my fingers

and was so cold it almost froze

the blood that his heart, hardened and

loveless though it was, had pumped out

and I remember a whole hell of a lot more

than I want to

and that's not even what I remember most

but it wakes me up at night

even when sergeant Jack Daniels has already

sung me to sleep

and makes me wish that I'd had the

courage to die in that

vast viney jungle

or the ingenuity to slice off my trigger

finger

or the luck to have been born a woman

so, for the sake of God and Country, I

wouldn't know more than a man

should

about foreign policies and diplomatic

sovereignties

and the other bullshit

that was passed off as two bit

patriotism to two bit soldiers

that were no more than babies

babes in a jungle.

 

Tara Williams is Mona Lisa's hidden tear. Jack loves her...she's his favorite time.

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