Southlands Snuffys

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 40 (v.1) - à mi-chemin

Submitted: August 17, 2016

Reads: 714

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Submitted: August 17, 2016

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à mi-chemin

 

“So, you Riverines somehow think you are somethin special, eh? Well you had better get this loud and damn well crystal clear, you ain’t that special to me, and you sure as hell aint something special to the gooks, so, you will just have to take your chances like the rest of us and run!”

 

Navy SEAL “wheel”, Compromised Hatchet Force, Ong Doc River, South Vietnam,

1967.

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A sudden gust of moist wind rustled the leaves, and its unusual coolness felt like the first chill kiss of fall back in the world. I looked up towards the night darkened green canopy of the tree I was sitting under, at a sky that was so clear I felt that I could just reach up and pluck one of its shining stars from the heavens. Then Charlie completely, and without even a beg your pardon, fucked that enchanted moment up by firing off a goddamn flare, and as the night darkness suddenly flashed away into a magnesium induced, daylight style glaring light we all dived for cover.

We became as if moles, as we burrowed deeply into a thick carpet of jungle moss, and there to be bitten to fuck by ants and sucked upon by large and voracious black and orange leaches. In that comforter soft cocoon of vampire bug infested jungle moss, trying to hide from the gooks expected gunfire and fighting down an urge to puke I began to wonder what the future had in store. Perhaps we would still be in the repulsive sour ooze of the boonie doing even more soul destroying infantry crap, or much more to my liking the longed for familiarity of being aboard a "Mike" boat.

Fuck it, coming up on six months into my tour and what had happened to the goddamn original Florida Riverines, they were becoming less original with every damn "ball game" we had against the gooks. Snippets of conversation once had with those made dead long before their time assailed my thoughts, their youthful faces were already blurring in my mind, but their voices were still ringing out clear and recognisable.

 It was becoming all too motherfucking emotional, and that created an asshole of an atmosphere full of crazy self-pity that drifted around like a dense fog in the minds of those remaining. Those for whom death was already tapping at the door as they struggled to stay alive in the festering swamps and jungle of the Southland, wearing filthy clothing, and sweating their balls off humping goddamn back-breaking overloaded rucks on fucked-up feet, and all the time hoping they wouldn’t get shot to shit or blown into a fragmented corpse by high explosives.

The answer lay in learning how to drop an impenetrable steel shutter in your mind between the daily military functions and your emotions, for such self-indulgence over the departed could seriously fuck you up if you let it, give you a real throbbing motherfucker of a headache, even a big dose of that goddamn debilitating survivor’s guilt. There was no doubt to be had, it was always safer following the "code of the grunt", which said that the dead were the dead, so just bury them and fucking move on, for better it was they rather than you!

I could have continued with the futility of thinking such brooding thoughts forever, a train of thought that could weary a person’s soul. But only the passage of time, and those in Saigon who were insensitive and unmoved by the fate of others as they busied themselves planning some half-baked scheme that would defeat Charlie and win the war, could possibly answer my question about the future. For they were the ones who held and read the military tarot cards, and so it would be they who would eventually decide our destinies.

To the Higher-Higher, a Marine, a Snuffy, was a servant of the state who was intelligent enough to do all that was asked of him, but not so intelligent as to start enquiring into the states motives behind that asking. Anyway, what goddamn difference would it make to enquire when Charlie was shooting the crap out of us? So in the end, with the state having sent us off down a road that might lead to everyone getting fucked-up, and with half a tour left, it was really about trying to shake from the mind all thoughts not directly related to staying alive, to rely upon the ability of firing a weapon without a moment's hesitation, and just saying to yourself; - fuck it!

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Hunting for Chuck.

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La Fin

Concluded in book 2 - Forest of Assassins - to - City of Hong Kong


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