Finally Vietnam. Time to fight my war.
Reup’ds to go right to Wespac’s door!
9th Marines, killin’ machine, don’t come any better.
The Major will be proud when I write him a letter.
Drew my gear in the rear at Dog Patch II.
Hit the local Ville like all new guys do.
Got my sandals, pad and home-made locker.
Saw a French deserter, grinning in his rocker.
Told to catch the mail bird, early on the morrow.
High in the moment, didn’t know any sorrow.
One tour behind me, now a new buck sergeant,
But really never knew what body bags meant.
We lifted off at dawn with me in the belly.
Stop number four was my home valley.
It was my first ride with guns at each door.
We started taking rounds, a gunner hit the floor.
Jumped off the crates, ready to do something.
The wound was wide with life-blood squirting.
His crotch now a hole, his scrotum barely hanging.
Tried to stop the bleeding, while the rounds kept banging.
Flew to Charlie-Med where they took him away.
Sat there thinking, Damn! It’s just my first day.
Hands were all sticky, my feelings hitting empty.
Took hold of numb. It was free in that Country.
We finally set down easy at the end of the tarmac.
Crew chief yelled, “Get out and don’t come back!”
“Sit your grunt ass down over there on the dunes.”
Right by Marble Mountains; bumps on the moon.
EOD swept the bird, top to bottom, even more.
Slowly easing the crates out of both side doors.
Examined all the ammo, handling each case with care.
Crew chief looked at me, ran his fingers through his hair.
With a mortar tube in hand, he walked over to me.
Held up the black casing, twisting so I could see.
While I stared, he said, “Your karma’s a good fit.”
Quarter inch more and we’d be paddy shit.
Just the beginning of my combat story.
John Wayne was wrong. It ain’t full of glory.
Guess it might be true ‘bout the luck of the Irish.
But there’d be other uglies before I would finish.