Famous Michael
I
In my Medic Platoon's graduation picture I’m the fat kid
in the back row, feeling scared, proud, ready for
responsibility. November, 1969, all 28 of us faced
the same orders: Vietnam.
A supply chopper dropped me off in a cloud
of dust at Landing Zone Action, 1st of the 10th Cavalry,
holding a duffel bag, a rifle, and paperwork.
Suddenly the quiet of bunkers and armored personnel carriers
surrounded by stretched and looped concertina, pegged tanglefoot,
claymore mines, trip flares, stone-can rattles,
and beyond that the beautiful jungle.
A clerk in the command bunker took my paperwork,
threw it away, and said, “We don’t need this crap.
If you survive we’ll make you up new records.”
Sergeant Dailey put me in a bunker, told me their mission,
their traditions going back to cowboy and Indian wars,
how the medic I replaced had his jaw shot off.
II
That first morning waking up I prepared for the worst,
loaded my medic bag for the convoy down Route 19,
rode the lead track through land bombed into mush,
tanks on both sides, shooting up likely ambushes.
Our whole strategy over there was expose yourself
and draw fire, then hurt those little people.
They called us the Thunder Run. Everyone rode hunched
on sandbags, hoping we wouldn’t hit a mine big enough
to cook us.
Along the road we saw rusting hulks of French tanks
--old Thunder Runs. At the top of Mang Jang Pass
the new Thunder Run slowed through a cemetery
for 2000 French soldiers,
buried standing up, facing France.
Each morning we retook Route 19 and resupplied a string
of LZ’s. Fort Apaches, really, guarded by little
bunches of guys spread out 50 miles from An Khe to Pleiku,
named Indian names: Mohawk, Iroquois, Blackhawk.
The top officer might’ve named it after his wife.
We’d fight for places named Sara, Jo Ellen, Barbara.
The convoy surprised this enemy out in the open. He was dead.
He turned and emptied his weapon at us. Our unsteady bullets
missed all around him. There was a moment there
he wasn’t going to stop.
High velocity weapons make ugly wounds.
With my first live casualty, I thought the bullet
was still in him, then the sergeant pointed out the exit.
Guys crowded over me saying, “Let’s shoot him right here.”
He was a kid my age, scared to death, and
North Vietnamese.
III
I was Doctor Strange or Doc. Nicknames came from comic books:
Superman, Hawkman, Flash, Green Arrow, Green Lantern.
Other nicknames were Rabbit, Cowboy, Thrifty, Craven,
Silver Surfer, Tin Pan Wizard, Willie the Owl.
Together we’d get high, listen to tapes, talk about high school,
look at exhausted copies of Playboy, and go where the shit
was always hot: the Ia Drang Valley, the North Zone, or up by Kontum.
It makes a difference being part of a group.
An order came down: “Boots must be polished.”
No color mentioned. Everyone polished their boots red.
Red brings out the nicest earth tones.
When we hit the rear they screamed, “What the
fuck color boots are those?” We said, “Red.”
IV
Each morning we won the road back; each night we lost it.
We killed a lot of each other. It was steady.
I could plan how many body bags.
Everyone else, their only responsibility was having fun
running around playing with these great toys:
you fire an M-60 machine gun at something, it disappears,
and you win; you call in air strikes, the enemy vaporizes,
and you win; I was stuck with the splatters, the losses.
Long nights I listened for the wounded through the crack
of small arms, AK’s, RPG’s, maybe and SKS. Our return fire
of frags, M-16’s showered the jungle.
The daylight offered nothing so beautiful.
I kept awake sipping liquid speed in Coke. The lulls were
Ghost Time. I’d lose my night vision to flares, tracers,
rocket barrages. The great slamming noises of the howitzers
were enough to kill. The concussion of incoming
bounced me around the sandbags. When it got too close
I’d hug the ground. Every part of me tried to sink
deeper. I forgot the rest of the world.
I knew I was dead.