Across the trail rises a stand of white pines. Always have had a thing for them. Could be their size. Maybe the spreading branches or soft cluster of five needles. Maybe the way they break into my dreams once in a while. They never talk but always have a lot to say. Guess we're kindred spirits though I'm a little denser and loose of tongue. At the cabin there's whites of all ages. Smooth green bark of the babies to gnarled of the Sentinels. About fifty feet from where I sit there's one going through puberty. Just starting to get furrowed bark at it's base. Should I return in a hundred fifty years or so it'll be a fine specimen.
Ran into a party of canoe men as I was leaving the Staircase Portage. Struck them as odd I had no canoe. 'Course I couldn't resist. Told them the canoe was back at the Little John access. For fun I was triple portaging across the entire Boundary Waters with the intention of eventually going back for the canoe. Didn't intend to say that. It just came out. My mouth is another one of those unknown things. 'Bout the only thing I know for sure is where I am at the moment. And that keeps changing. Getting harder and harder to keep up with where I am as I get older. Good for me they laughed. I grinned a big gold-molared grin. Better to be laughed with even when they're maybe laughing at. Yeah, I'm one funny guy. Two days from now they'll wonder if they might have just imagined the old guy they ran into on the trail.
Spent the night on South Lake. Not sure the reason for its name. Yes, it was south of North Lake. That makes sense. But then, why call the other North? Then it hit me. North was north of South and vice versa. Perfect sense. Turned out to actually make sense. A few months later I asked a ranger down in Grand Marais. Seems the two lakes are separated by the height of land portage. South Lake's water eventually flows into the Atlantic Ocean, which is to the east. North's to Hudson Bay to the northeast. Centuries back when a rookie voyageur'd pass over the carry he'd be initiated with the drippings off a cedar bough and make a promise not to dance the hanky-panky with another voyageur's wife unless she said it was okay. Probably no worry or possibility as all of those little Frenchmen were herniated and emaciated from carrying those big loads from one lake to the next.
Camp looked about the same as the one on Clearwater. Level, water view, commode up the hill. Not so the sky. Wasn't threatening as yet but was dropping hints. Once again tent first then water. Once again a wood fire to save on fuel. I knew I had plenty but feared I didn't. Should the rain be a gully-washer and keep me off the trail, an extra meal's fuel would come in handy. Chicken and rice tonight. They sure didn't skimp on the seasonings when they made this stuff. By and large it's a small step up from tolerable. 'Course I'm so hungry when the stuff finally softens it's all I can do to keep from eating the bag. Could probably drool the stuff soft. All the while I'm working around camp there's a pot of water over the fire. Need it for food, drinking water for tonight and tomorrow, coffee and a dram or two to wash my spoon and bowl. Water's so important it seems a shame to take a leak.
Began to sprinkle before I was ready to hit the hay. Quick brushed my teeth and crawled under the tarp. Time to pull out Archie's second letter from Vietnam:
Dear Uncle Emil,
I sure do miss our time on the water. Even miss those months when we built your cabin. At times it was miserable work but I'd trade places in a heartbeat to be there with you now. They were good times that'll stay with me for the rest of my life. Got a feeling my time here will do the same but for different reasons and with different effects.
Odd how that works out. Felt an obligation to volunteer for the draft. Not that I wanted to, more that I had to. Since that day I've not been happy being where I am and live in fear of the future and what might be waiting there for me. Don't like it but don't regret it.
When I showed up at Bravo Company the unit was in the field. Met First Sergeant Withers right off. Seems a nice guy and looks almost as old as you. Stowed my gear, helped load a deuce and a half then headed out to Fire Support Base Moore about the time the Company was coming in. At the moment that's where I'm sitting and writing this letter. Pulling night bunker guard with two men from Ohio. No one but me seems to go by their real name around here. I'm Pelago or simply Peg. My fellow guards are Weasel and Papa-san.
Spent my first couple of trips to the field walking, learning and hurting. The hurting came from the load of crap on my back. All of it had to be there. Grenades, backup machinegun ammo, C-4 explosive, ammo belt, book, cigarettes, water, spoon, food and butt wipe. First time out I carried three full c-ration meals and four canteens. Next time it was one full meal and three canteens. Finally I settled for two canteens, crackers and peanut butter, some canned fruit, candy (I'm partial to C-ration chocolate and coconut patties) and coffee fixings. Learning to do without. Also losing a few pounds. There's no fat grunts in the delta. We walk everywhere. When we don't walk out of Moore on a bushmaster, we eagle-flight in helicopters to places farther away so we can walk over different ground. Guess they don't want us trampling paths on the lawns that aren't there.
At the moment it's dry here. No monsoon yet but I've been told it's coming. Might be a lot like what you went through in the Philippines. Same with the number of troops in our company. We're supposed to have about a hundred-fifty when we head out but usually have less than eighty. I suppose that doesn't surprise you. Being short of men in a field unit is probably the story of all wars. Men go to war, men get wounded or die. Back in training we were told one in ten of us would be killed. Looks like they weren't kidding. No mention was made of how many would be maimed or crippled. Maybe they don't count unless you happen to be one of them.
My favorite time of day is sunset. We eat our last meal, loaf around, drink coffee and have the last cigarette of the day. Once it starts getting dark we saddle up and head to our night position. Usually we spread ourselves out in the center rice paddy of a large field. Don't know what we'll do once the rains start. Get wet? The dikes we hide behind are about foot and a half high. Most nights we each only pull one watch. About an hour and a half apiece. Being on the short end of the stick I get last pick and find myself trying to stay awake and hopefully alert, at about two in the morning. It's not as easy as it sounds.
This last time out it was different. About the time we began to set up someone spotted what they figured to be a VC. I doubt our whereabouts at night is a secret from anyone in the area but this was a little too much for Bravo Six, our CO. So we moved. Through a swamp we moved. Belly button deep in the water, surrounded by shadowy trees. It sure was dark but I could still see the vague outline of the man in front of me. I was midway when there was a pop from up front followed a few seconds later by an explosion. Never heard that before but knew it couldn't be good. Turned out our point man had tripped a grenade booby trap on the way up the embankment exiting the swamp. Both he and the man walking second were peppered with shrapnel and had to be dusted off. Since there was no choice, the chopper had to descend in mid-swamp. The opening in the trees was so small the medevac's prop was clipping the tree branches. The swamp that was a moment earlier black as the ace of spaces was now lit up like a ball park by the flood lights of the huey chopper. Both men were passed back from shoulder to shoulder to keep their wounds out of the water. Probably didn't matter much as they were already soaked to the bone. Me and two other men were at the skids of the chopper in chest deep water and passed both Woolwine and Smith (one of the three in our company) to the medics above.
Never thought about doing crap like that before. We wade through rivers and swamps and don't think much of it. Everyone else does it so it's shut up and move on. We're wet and muddy most of the time. Sleep on the ground wrapped up in rubberized ponchos to keep the mosquitoes off. Walk from hooch to hooch asking for ID papers almost like the Gestapo in nazi Germany. And once in a while walk into ambushes. Hard to think of us as the good guys when I'm asking for papers from a woman nursing her baby. No offense but this place sucks to high heaven. Shut up and move on Archie.
Later that night we were on fifty percent alert and there was no problem staying awake. None whatsoever. Oh well. Like I said, most of the time we just walk around and sweat a lot. Beats tripping booby traps.
Catch one for me,
Archie
Sounds familiar. When I finally went to the field in the Philippines we were doing a lot of patrolling with hopes of clearing out the remaining Japanese. By then they must have realized they weren't going to win the war. Giving up would've made a lot more sense but I guess that wasn't in their nature. Or the way they were raised. I want to say we were better than that. Maybe we were. Maybe not. I don't want to be the one to make that call. Been wrong before, I'll be wrong again. What I do want is to be right here, walking this trail for no good reason whatsoever. I had my war and have no need for another. Yet here I lay in the peace of a northwoods night finding myself caring about this one. Hope Archie doesn't think his war is all that special. Every one of them sucks to high heaven for those on the front lines.
Spent the night on South Lake. Not sure the reason for its name. Yes, it was south of North Lake. That makes sense. But then, why call the other North? Then it hit me. North was north of South and vice versa. Perfect sense. Turned out to actually make sense. A few months later I asked a ranger down in Grand Marais. Seems the two lakes are separated by the height of land portage. South Lake's water eventually flows into the Atlantic Ocean, which is to the east. North's to Hudson Bay to the northeast. Centuries back when a rookie voyageur'd pass over the carry he'd be initiated with the drippings off a cedar bough and make a promise not to dance the hanky-panky with another voyageur's wife unless she said it was okay. Probably no worry or possibility as all of those little Frenchmen were herniated and emaciated from carrying those big loads from one lake to the next.
Camp looked about the same as the one on Clearwater. Level, water view, commode up the hill. Not so the sky. Wasn't threatening as yet but was dropping hints. Once again tent first then water. Once again a wood fire to save on fuel. I knew I had plenty but feared I didn't. Should the rain be a gully-washer and keep me off the trail, an extra meal's fuel would come in handy. Chicken and rice tonight. They sure didn't skimp on the seasonings when they made this stuff. By and large it's a small step up from tolerable. 'Course I'm so hungry when the stuff finally softens it's all I can do to keep from eating the bag. Could probably drool the stuff soft. All the while I'm working around camp there's a pot of water over the fire. Need it for food, drinking water for tonight and tomorrow, coffee and a dram or two to wash my spoon and bowl. Water's so important it seems a shame to take a leak.
Began to sprinkle before I was ready to hit the hay. Quick brushed my teeth and crawled under the tarp. Time to pull out Archie's second letter from Vietnam:
Dear Uncle Emil,
I sure do miss our time on the water. Even miss those months when we built your cabin. At times it was miserable work but I'd trade places in a heartbeat to be there with you now. They were good times that'll stay with me for the rest of my life. Got a feeling my time here will do the same but for different reasons and with different effects.
Odd how that works out. Felt an obligation to volunteer for the draft. Not that I wanted to, more that I had to. Since that day I've not been happy being where I am and live in fear of the future and what might be waiting there for me. Don't like it but don't regret it.
When I showed up at Bravo Company the unit was in the field. Met First Sergeant Withers right off. Seems a nice guy and looks almost as old as you. Stowed my gear, helped load a deuce and a half then headed out to Fire Support Base Moore about the time the Company was coming in. At the moment that's where I'm sitting and writing this letter. Pulling night bunker guard with two men from Ohio. No one but me seems to go by their real name around here. I'm Pelago or simply Peg. My fellow guards are Weasel and Papa-san.
Spent my first couple of trips to the field walking, learning and hurting. The hurting came from the load of crap on my back. All of it had to be there. Grenades, backup machinegun ammo, C-4 explosive, ammo belt, book, cigarettes, water, spoon, food and butt wipe. First time out I carried three full c-ration meals and four canteens. Next time it was one full meal and three canteens. Finally I settled for two canteens, crackers and peanut butter, some canned fruit, candy (I'm partial to C-ration chocolate and coconut patties) and coffee fixings. Learning to do without. Also losing a few pounds. There's no fat grunts in the delta. We walk everywhere. When we don't walk out of Moore on a bushmaster, we eagle-flight in helicopters to places farther away so we can walk over different ground. Guess they don't want us trampling paths on the lawns that aren't there.
At the moment it's dry here. No monsoon yet but I've been told it's coming. Might be a lot like what you went through in the Philippines. Same with the number of troops in our company. We're supposed to have about a hundred-fifty when we head out but usually have less than eighty. I suppose that doesn't surprise you. Being short of men in a field unit is probably the story of all wars. Men go to war, men get wounded or die. Back in training we were told one in ten of us would be killed. Looks like they weren't kidding. No mention was made of how many would be maimed or crippled. Maybe they don't count unless you happen to be one of them.
My favorite time of day is sunset. We eat our last meal, loaf around, drink coffee and have the last cigarette of the day. Once it starts getting dark we saddle up and head to our night position. Usually we spread ourselves out in the center rice paddy of a large field. Don't know what we'll do once the rains start. Get wet? The dikes we hide behind are about foot and a half high. Most nights we each only pull one watch. About an hour and a half apiece. Being on the short end of the stick I get last pick and find myself trying to stay awake and hopefully alert, at about two in the morning. It's not as easy as it sounds.
This last time out it was different. About the time we began to set up someone spotted what they figured to be a VC. I doubt our whereabouts at night is a secret from anyone in the area but this was a little too much for Bravo Six, our CO. So we moved. Through a swamp we moved. Belly button deep in the water, surrounded by shadowy trees. It sure was dark but I could still see the vague outline of the man in front of me. I was midway when there was a pop from up front followed a few seconds later by an explosion. Never heard that before but knew it couldn't be good. Turned out our point man had tripped a grenade booby trap on the way up the embankment exiting the swamp. Both he and the man walking second were peppered with shrapnel and had to be dusted off. Since there was no choice, the chopper had to descend in mid-swamp. The opening in the trees was so small the medevac's prop was clipping the tree branches. The swamp that was a moment earlier black as the ace of spaces was now lit up like a ball park by the flood lights of the huey chopper. Both men were passed back from shoulder to shoulder to keep their wounds out of the water. Probably didn't matter much as they were already soaked to the bone. Me and two other men were at the skids of the chopper in chest deep water and passed both Woolwine and Smith (one of the three in our company) to the medics above.
Never thought about doing crap like that before. We wade through rivers and swamps and don't think much of it. Everyone else does it so it's shut up and move on. We're wet and muddy most of the time. Sleep on the ground wrapped up in rubberized ponchos to keep the mosquitoes off. Walk from hooch to hooch asking for ID papers almost like the Gestapo in nazi Germany. And once in a while walk into ambushes. Hard to think of us as the good guys when I'm asking for papers from a woman nursing her baby. No offense but this place sucks to high heaven. Shut up and move on Archie.
Later that night we were on fifty percent alert and there was no problem staying awake. None whatsoever. Oh well. Like I said, most of the time we just walk around and sweat a lot. Beats tripping booby traps.
Catch one for me,
Archie
Sounds familiar. When I finally went to the field in the Philippines we were doing a lot of patrolling with hopes of clearing out the remaining Japanese. By then they must have realized they weren't going to win the war. Giving up would've made a lot more sense but I guess that wasn't in their nature. Or the way they were raised. I want to say we were better than that. Maybe we were. Maybe not. I don't want to be the one to make that call. Been wrong before, I'll be wrong again. What I do want is to be right here, walking this trail for no good reason whatsoever. I had my war and have no need for another. Yet here I lay in the peace of a northwoods night finding myself caring about this one. Hope Archie doesn't think his war is all that special. Every one of them sucks to high heaven for those on the front lines.
No comments:
Post a Comment