Drumstick? Chicken leg or tom-tom pounder? Hoped for the latter but either way the lake's name lacks the charm of Kekekabic. My choice, I'd call it Bath-time Lake. The splashings I'd done in the mornings to this point had kept most of the flies away but not much more. Needed a full fledged swim with a bar of soap. Wasn't possible as this was Boundary Waters territory. No soap allowed in the water. Also wanted to dry myself when I came out. Also not possible in this rain. Here's where the movies'd have the rain come down in buckets. Me standing buck naked, arms outstretched, face to the sky, triumphant music blaring in the background. Sun'd come out and I'd dry myself with armfuls of lavender and violets under the spreading arc of a rainbow. Maybe tomorrow.
I creaked my way around camp. Took some effort to string the tarp when my wrinkled fingers decided to cramp up. They've been doing that for years when cold and wet. Hammering, canoeing and fishing do a job to them also. Fingers cross and lock into place. Nothing to do but beat 'em against a white pine 'til the pain loosened 'em up. It was a challenge to draw the tarp drum tight. Finally decided the best way to deal with the situation was to not think about it. Just keep moving forward 'til I was fed, water drawn for the morning, coffee made and the tarp restrung for sleeping. Had three hours of dim light and used every minute 'til I was tucked in the bag,
Dear Uncle Emil,
Rumors have been flying for the last couple of weeks that we're to be the first Division pulled out of country. One minute we're going for sure, the next we're not. Every day a new rumor. So many I even started a few of my own. One came back in much the same shape as I sent it out. Hope it didn't turn out to be true as I had us going to the eastern front to refight the battle of Stalingrad. If there's any Ruskie spies around they might already be fortifying the city.
My mouth got me in trouble once again. I'm starting to think the Army isn't a democracy. Wonder if they know that? We'd been in the field for better than two days. Doesn't sound like much unless you know about the effects of the monsoon on tender American feet. On the third day we were waiting for the choppers when word came down there'd be none. It seems another company was in trouble and needed every available Huey. So we set out on our ten click hump to Fire Base Moore.
Six miles isn't much of a hike. We'd done twice that in training but all of those miles were on roads. Here with the land in flood, we had a dozen or more rivers and moats to cross. And bitched about it every step of the way. Didn't think of it until now but the VC do all of their traveling on foot. Monsoon or not, they get out and do what they have to do. Could be that's the difference in the war. Attitude. Simply put, they're tougher than us draftees. Maybe because they have to be. Communism, democracy, I don't think either of those two philosophies matter much when push comes to shove. We were fighting a war of sketchy principles, they were fighting for their homeland. Most of us were trying to last out our year. Big difference and they have a home field advantage.
Anyway, mid-afternoon we made it back to Moore. Once I pulled off my boots my feet began to swell until the toes pointed up. Nearly everyone was in the same shape as me. The medics put over half the company on bed rest to get the swelling down. That lasted about half an hour. Seems there wasn't enough bodies to man the bunkers so, bed rest or not, a lot of us were ordered out. Not me but it was yours truly who shot his mouth off. The sergeant passing on the order said not a word, left and returned a minute later. Seemed the First Sergeant wanted a talk with me. Yeah, I knew I was in trouble.
Top told me in ten words or less to keep my mouth shut. Of course I jumped to my defense but got no farther than, "I thought…" before he shut me up with "The Army doesn't pay you to think!" He had me there. Pissed? For sure but at least I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut this time.
A part of me just doesn't understand what's going on. I'm in uniform, a soldier in an army, carrying a rifle, in a war zone and yet, I act like I'm still a student in college. A mouth with no real concept of my circumstance.
Beyond that the rumors continue to fly. Hope they're right. This is not a good place for a fool like me.
Archie
The letter started me chuckling. Not that it was funny. Well, it was funny. And sad at the same time. In a nutshell, Archie was a boy trying to become a man in a world that had the jump on him. And he's not alone. There's thousands of boys just like him over there. There were plenty of them in my war also. Boys, fools, maniacs, cowards, egos run rampant. Lots of them. Even some men. More and more of the latter as their time in combat grew. Enough to get us through. I act like I know all the answers but I don't. I suspect no one really knows. Where are the wise old men and women in this world? And would we know them or listen to them if they were recognized?
And what was I doing out here on the trail? Wanted it bad before I started and now I wanted to be done with it. What was the point of it anyhow? For that matter, what's the point of anything? So many questions, so few answers. Nighttime thoughts.
War does that to a man. Gets him questioning. Wondering it there's any meaning behind the mass stupidity he's passing through. Maybe we're too limited to know the truth of life. Only smart enough to ask questions. And with luck get an occasional answer from out of the blue. Could be the feeling I got from the return letters I received from Humphrey and McCarthy was right. I'm not much more than a monkey in pants. At the moment I wish those pants were dry. Still raining when I switched off the flashlight.
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