It was the rainy season, and the air was heavy as a cape of lead. The American choppers soared over the jungle, and in one of them sat Larry. Opposite him was Ethan, a Kiwi who’d signed up for Vietnam of his own free will. Ethan was a big red-haired man, half-asleep with the barrel of a machine gun nuzzled in the crook of his arm. Larry did not speak. He’d been in shock ever since his forced conscription into the war. He looked out the helicopter’s open side. The jungle stretched as far as the eye could see, its canopy dense and impenetrable to the eye. Palm trees and bamboo fronds hung over the dirty brown rivers, and Larry imagined marines snaking through the forest with the Vietcong camouflaged in the bushes, their rifle shots muffled by the foliage. The Vietcong was Charlie, the enemy – the North Vietnamese guerrillas they’d been sent there to wipe out. They were clever; they hid in the bushes and feared the ace of spades, the infamous card that meant death in their culture. Americans pinned these cards on the bodies of slain VC fighters. Larry watched the other choppers landing on a wide clearing that looked like a field of wheat. Far off there was a bank of cloud, and a flock of gray geese took flight. Suddenly, a clap of thunder went off like a bomb. The rain began to fall. The redhead woke up, and gave Larry a grin. They were in the same boat now.
“Name’s Ethan,” the marine yelled. “That’s a nice little pop gun you got there!” he said to Larry, pointing to the M16.
“I'm Larry,” the greenhorn yelled back.
“You see this here?” Ethan went on, holding up his M60. “This big ol’ beauty was made in the USA – a real war machine, ain’t she? No better tool in the box when it comes to killing gooks!”
“OK, man,” yelled Larry. “I guess I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Guess you just got conscripted, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Fresh meat. Another FNG coming down to the jungle.”
“Another what?”
“FNG. Fucking New Guy! That’s what we call the rookies. All you guys are good for is cleaning the head. Once you learn how to fight and kill gooks, then you’ll be useful.”
“Where you from?” asked Larry.
“New Zealand. You know where that is? Well, that doesn’t matter. Over here no-one gives a shit where you come from, if you got money, if you killed your mom or if you’re a movie star. Out here, you’re either a real man or you punch it.”
The helicopter landed in the Bravo company camp, hidden in the bush in the middle of nowhere. “Welcome to the asshole of the world,” cried Ethan, standing proudly. Larry climbed out of the helicopter and looked around the place.
Larry emptied his bag of all the standard-issue items given to Army personnel: two boxes of matches, a pack of cigarettes, mosquito spray, diarrhea medication, a canteen, two pairs of socks, a uniform, pencils, a few sheets of paper and a handful of envelopes. He stowed his boots carefully, knowing how important they would be in the jungle. Then he cleaned his M16 with care. Ethan was already busy writing to his girl back home; he didn’t talk much, using the time to write to his fiancée instead.
Night had fallen, and Larry listened to the sounds of the rainforest; the calls of the birds, the chattering of the monkeys and the rustling of the trees. There came a clap of thunder, and rain began to pound down on the tent. Sleep eluded him. Here he was on the other side of the world, while back home people were going about their lives as normal. Like always, his mother Gladys would be making corn. They’d be dancing at the Savoy; they’d be listening to jazz. He missed the music. He missed the distractions. Here there was nothing but earth, trees and rain. Tomorrow he might have to kill someone. Tomorrow he would pull on his boots, and head out to mow down the enemies of America like vermin.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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