Fast off a chopper to deliver
a jeep battery to a small fire base,
I juggle the damn thing
with both hands as I run,
M-16 swinging across my back,
helmet, grenades bouncing,
and once inside the wire,
am startled by a loud blast, shouts,
grunts scurrying, diving for cover,
an unshaven bare-headed kid
with ragged-red flat top,
buck-toothed, flushed-faced,
hysterical, laughing, shirtless,
in jungle fatigues and boots,
waving a sawed-off shotgun,
jumping bandy-legged, hollering,
“Got that mofo!
Got me a gook!” –
A young VC, head half gone,
AK-47 aside, plastic explosive
gripped in one hand,
arm over his shoulder
“You!” I am ordered
“Grab a bandolier!
On patrol, right now!”
With that sharp command
and bloodied visage
I wake some mornings when
the sun is bright and I feel blue,
looking down at a sign
spray-painted in large white letters
on the brown wall of a sandbagged bunker:
“WELCOME TO CAMBODIA”