Once upon a yesteryear, long, long ago, there was a place…
A place where the magic trick was to get through the moment without committing some unpardonable act of stupidity…
A place where the condition of one’s health was measured by proximity to events and a morning report…
A place where the primary objective was to stay clear of moving parts, both friendly and unfriendly…
A place where there was no good luck or bad luck, but rather only consequences of judgement and location…
A place where courage was not the absence of fear but rather the determination to control one’s fear…
A place of pretending that what could not be seen would not hurt you, yet fearing that to touch death might convey it’s curse upon one’s self…
A place of long hours of tentative boredom interrupted unsuspectedly by seconds of shear raw terror and embarrassing exhilaration.
A place that was the worst of times yet, for some strange reason, also the best of times.
A place where faceless warriors, to young to die and to old to cry, met on a field of battle to curry the favor of their elders.
A place that was an ambiguous mess where no one appeared to be in control or responsible.
A place called Vietnam.
William L. Little
War Wagon 12
Copyright 1999