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The colors are deep purples and reds, made more intense by the fluffy cumulous clouds gathering over the low hills to the west. The sun is disappearing behind the lone sentinel palm tree that stands in front of the operations tent. The lights are on in the tent where Captain Herb Vossler sits with the ops sergeant. The sounds of the young night are drowned out by the drone of the generator. Herb is awaiting the return of the last helicopter from Tam Ky. Sugg is due with the last of the armorers and POL crew. I am standing in front of the tent, waiting with him. Most of the pilots and enlisted have already left the area. I can hear the faint sounds of laughter and music from the clubs over in the Marine compound. The music has an odd, surrealistic quality. It is American rock and roll as played by a nondescript Vietnamese or Korean band using some of the worst chords ever to punish the ears. My sleeping tent is just a few feet away, beckoning my tired body. I have been flying for 21 straight days. So have the rest of my scout pilots. We have lost over half of our aircraft and 5 of our pilots in just three weeks of flying in support of the Americal Division. Every day we have to fly by the low unimpressive looking hill where, just last week, we had lost 5 of our good friends from the Aerorifle platoon less than 5 minutes from the time they were inserted. 5 out of 17 killed in a battle that was still raging on and around that hill. I finally turn and walk toward the GP Medium tent that has become my home. I pull off my boots and sweaty nomex and hang my .38 pistol with it's holster on top of the corner tent stake. I had pulled rank to get the corner cot, as it gets the most of the scarce breeze that sometimes comes off the ocean 300 yards away. I pull back the mesquito netting and lie on top of my sleeping bag. It's too hot and muggy to even get under the poncho liner that usually passes for a blanket. As I am finally lying on my back, I hear the static of the VHF radio in the ops tent. I hear the unmistakable sound of Sugg's distinctive accent. It's not exactly Spanish, not exactly French, but just plain Sugg. "I'm on short final, hope there's some grub left". After acknowledging Sugg, Herb turns the radio off. He steps out of the tent and kills the generator. The sudden silence seems like a gift from out of nowhere. I can now hear the distinctive night sounds that remind me where I am. Insects. Every imaginable kind. The mesquitos are buzzing noisily around my netting, and some are finding the holes that are an inevitable consequence of the rot that attacks everything. I am soon swatting and cursing them in a repeat of a nightly ritual. Finally, I am forced to crawl under my poncho liner to avoid them. I begin to think of Toni's letter I have just read this afternoon. The snow has finally melted in the Wisconsin barnyard. She had let By Golly out to frolic in the sunshine. By Golly is the young Arab gelding I bought her as a wedding present 5 years ago. Toni talked of things that seemed so important to her. She talked of Valerie's pointing at my picture and saying "dada". She complained of having to borrow money from her mom in order to be able to meet me in Hawaii for R & R. I am worrying that maybe she won't be there when I arrive. Mostly I am dreaming of what it will be like in Hawaii. What her body will feel like next to mine. I am due to leave in two days. I remember that Doc Lapointe's wife was supposed to meet him there just last week. She was bringing her new baby with her. Garry Dolin had had to call her and tell her not to come. Doc had died on top of that hill. Herb stops by my tent. "Want to come along?" "No, I'm too tired" He leaves me there with my reverie. I begin to drift off. Sleep with it's dreams comes over me. Another night comes to Chu Lai. Marcus A. Pryor |
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