13 SEPT 70

Once again one of my writing mentors has written something that I must respond to. The last time I did this with RG it was to a story she wrote 30 days before she met me, now I have a some observations written in 1970. The only significance to the date is I was 19 and in Viet Nam which is currently where RG resides.

Here is her poem The Yawning Gulf of Love. Here is mine

13 SEPT 70
PCAB
2245 HRS.
B-33

        You stand here listening to the gentle rain fall on your bunker. For some odd reason it pleases you. It’s just a quiet little rain and you dig it. It reminds you of home in the summer time. It’s like the cleansing rains that use to wash aways the smells of winter and brought spring to life.

        You think it isn’t really that much different over here either. It will clean the air of the stink of the rice paddies and life and death and most important of all the War. You are glad, you want to escape the War for a few hours, minutes, seconds. You think to yourself a man can’t smell the War constantly or he will go crazy. Just a respite is all you want. When it rains you can cover your sixty and other gear. It makes a lump. It hides the bitter reality of death waiting to happen.

        At least for a little while, you can sit back and dream your dreams. You can believe you are back home and going to see your chick in a few minutes. It is cool and you ere thankful for that. It adds to the pleasant illusion. You almost believe it.

        It stops though like all good things must. You come back to the reality of your bunker and your job. You uncover the carefully wrapped sixty, and make sure it is dry. You check everything over to make sure it is dry and will operate if and when the time comes.

        You are ready to work again, but the feeling is still partially with you and you want to regain it all. You can’t though cause the magical element that was there is gone. So you content yourself with what you have now.

        With each passing second though, the illusion is leaving. With each second it becomes more fleeting. Until finally it has gone the way of the winds.

Some additional notes. We weren’t allowed to carry writing material with us. So this was more than likely written on a c-ration box, The sixty I refer to is the M-60 MG, a constant friend . Yes I did notice the date it was written, just noticed it.