storeeze

My first sense of a Higher Power walked in with death: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. —Child's bedtime prayer, 18th century Before my mother taught me the prayer, I had had no thoughts about death or God. Afterward, those were all my thoughts. The prayer, a childhood favorite at the time, established a supernatural realm and the agency to connect it with the material world. It reminded children of the impermanence of life and the certainty of death. Withal, it promoted the curious idea that the sovereignty of the prayer would not only reassure children before bedtime, but also preserve the innocence of childhood slumber following its recitation. This can’t be right, can it? How could I go to sleep if I might not wake up? Terrifying. As we prayed together each night, she taught me to pray for others. Would they die, too? This sad bedtime poem generated more questions than answers. What is a...

Barry’s roadster pressing vapors and clouds, foggier and doggier. Silver stanchions lamp-lit the stage. Coronas, dreamy signs billboards— The Arch bathed in blue light. Hearing your voice out of the fog, I wish I tasted your eggnog laced with whiskey, long sips…

On the sunny afternoon of 8 August 1970, a courier dropped the daily casualty report on my desk. The day prior, Charlie Company had been investigating a suspicious area in the bush. Capt. Martinez, who inclined toward the unusual, had set up an LP (listening post) away from the main body. An LP was the least popular assignment and most unsettling because the enemy owned the night.   Two of the newest men in the unit, an FNG (fucking new guy) and SP4 Pondextuer Eugene Williams, a vet from The Big Red One, were put out there in no man’s land like tethered goats, to pick up enemy traffic. They were huddled around their radio listening to the night noises for tell-tale signs when a Viet Cong snuck up and planted a mine. The blast took off Williams' head and critically wounded his companion. Doc Gerrits went out to check. Williams was done for, so he treated the wounded man.   Taking care of your buddies is utmost, but Williams’ friends were shaky because of recent enemy contac...

While stumbling around the Internet today I ran across "Refusal to Bury." It brought back a lot of memories because I am the  Ron  Martz cited in the piece. When that story was dropped in my lap I was in my second month of my first newspaper job after dropping out of college after two years. The story resonated with me because I had spent three years in the Marine Corps prior to college (1965-68), the last 18 months working in the Casualty Section at Headquarters Marine Corps (they sent me there because I could write a simple declarative sentence and type with all 10 fingers; an oddity in the Marine Corps at the time). I remember the day Mrs. Campbell walked into the newspaper office and told her story first to Dick Lundin, who was a part-time correspondent for us who wrote about community affairs in Port St. Lucie, Fla., a planned community just south of Fort Pierce. He wrote the first piece about it and then the story was handed to me, in part because of my militar...

Amidst old smoke  and stale perfume of a broken night, a seraphic voice posed a question in the dark— “Have we spoken?” In the green room,  yellow gloves lay on a coffee table. She lit a cigarette, gazed at the fine rain. I took her scent  felt her breath. Her nostrils flared — an arabesque veil of smoke drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes. A hot blush came to my cheek. “Your blood is warm.” She forced a laugh, blew a jet  from under dark lashes. “I adore Coblenz. K iss me. ”   She tasted of tobacco  and stale mint. Her bosom swelled, a tremor crossed her face. “Would you like a trip to Greece?” White-velvet breasts. C-section. Painted nails on a cold-hard floor. I woke to a curving figure  staring in a mirror — wide-brimmed hat, black-spike heels, cigarette,  eye-liner — headlights in the drive, shouts at the front door.

What am I doin' here? Please Mr. Custer, I don't want to go —from De Lory, A., Darian, F. and Van Winkle, J. (1960). Mr. Custer [lyrics] Early February, 1970, Charlie company was hacking through thick bamboo over our heads in the stomping grounds of the 9th Division NVA (North Vietnamese Army), investigating some funny business the Duck had spotted in a locality we were unfamiliar with. Back in the world, Jean Dixon, the gossip prophet, had designated our regiment (Custer’s 7th Cavalry) for destruction. If that wasn’t enough, the anniversary of the Tet Offensive was also hanging over our heads. Late that afternoon, I almost crashed into Bob. The point had stopped chopping when he came upon a fresh path. Mmm-hmm. We didn't follow paths or cross them. Better to break bush than mix with heavy traffic and ignorant crowds.  Patient, soft-spoken Capt. Jackson, our CO, had made us feel at home in the jungle. He didn’t waste lives to make a name or a point. He felt the weight of ...

“For the times they are a-changin'”—Bob Dylan Yet that’s what began to be felt in Charlie Company after Bob took point at 0745 on April 6, 1970, a few miles from the Cambodian border,  tramping on land that the enemy, up until now, considered their own. Circling overhead in his tiny scout helicopter, Lt. Col. Trobaugh thought he had the ideal LZ (landing zone) for the lift ships (helicopters) to pluck us from the strange, unsettling wonders of Vietnam's jungles. After a short while, Bob crossed an old Armored Personnel Carrier track and emerged onto a single-lane dirt road lined by thick vegetation on both sides. Footprints in the mud jumped up and hit him between the eyes. “Fresh NVA (North Vietnamese Army) slicks!” He was standing smack dab on the Ho Chi Minh Trail! The squad stopped. The platoon stopped. Bob ushered us back into the safety of the bush. We were suspicious of our new boss, Capt. Al Rice, 24, ranger and gungho martinet. He had a reckless air and been acting od...