There was a first day
he battled the angry heat,
a stench so foul
it gagged him,
blood running down his arms
where mosquitoes struck,
a need for something cold
against his throat
so desperate
he might have killed
for ice.
There was the day
of his first firefight,
his first Tet and first kill,
his first buddy to die,
roiling stools and spongy feet,
the first time he slapped
a mama-san to the mud
with his rifle butt
and begged her to give him cause.
There was the day
his camouflaged fatigues
hung easy on his ankles,
his feet grew boots,
his helmet joined his head,
when C rations tasted fine,
the green towel around his neck
friendly as a muffler,
when he woke in the jungle morning
ready and eager.
There was the day
his orders came
to return to the World,
when he crouched by the road
waiting for the convoy to pass,
one hand around the barrel
of an M-16,
the other squeezing his dog tags,
when he turned cold
and couldn’t stop shaking,
when he decided
his only choice
was to stay.