Recapturing 1968 by LisaMay
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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. The last time I saw Charlie for real was in ’68. Yeah, my old nemesis – Charlie. I was twenty years old and still had my eyesight and all my limbs. Contact! I try to forget his face, that look where I knew I was looking at myself, the screaming, the terror, the shit in our pants. And then his face wasn’t there any more. And my legs weren’t either. I try to forget the smell. That smell of fear, my acrid, stinky sweat, the purple smell of slick, gushing blood. No wonder they call that damn medal a Purple Heart. Dunno about the heart – when we got back home the public sure showed their hearts weren’t in it. The sounds are the worst though. When a chopper goes overhead these days I still can’t breathe for a while. Those Chinooks and Hueys back in ’Nam, we were in and out of them all day… their chopper rotors beating all the damn time; that relentless thumping, whumping rhythm. The crump of artillery, M16’s spitting and barking madly, the zing and whine of bugs and bullets, the boggy squelch of mud up to our armpits. And my platoon mates’ primal vocals. The memorable intensity of the silence. Yeah, it does have a sound. A gaping sound – a vacuum vortex, the wide-eyed hollowness of sucking Hell. Listening… listening real hard till your ears buzz… trying to listen for other sounds above your own heartbeat pounding your flinching brain. Any little rustle, any little leafy shiver in that godawful clinging, steaming jungle. And then a CLICK in the moist air… A broken twig? The safety catch off? A tripwire? Charlie is unforgettable, no matter how desperately I try to erase him. How do I get myself calm? How do I get through my nightmares? What haven’t I tried! Booze – drinking myself shit-faced; drugs – whatever I can get my hands on – the slow, mellow melt into numbness, or that fizz-tingle of jangly neon colours. Sex could be up there as a release. Huh! Up there! Sick joke. Those bits don’t function now. My nitro sprint days got dealt to in ’68. Like I said – lacking limbs. So I can’t get back to motorbikes and high-velocity, projectile speed – that ears-pinned-back blur of adrenaline, with its highly-tuned, roaring reverberations cleaving through space. Soooo sexy. I tripped a land mine. It was mine all right. Had my name written all over it, written in my blood. My dog tags rattle. Blood type A+ Excellent. Go to the top of the class. Who’s a clever boy then? You’ll be fine… keep talking. Here, bite on this… I’ll just give you a little something. Stay with us… The medics needed bags of the stuff for me. And body bags for the others. Tony, Rick, Davey, Mario… Viet Cong. Victor-fucking-Charlie. Dunno where that Victor came from. Victory didn't happen. We left. We lost. We lost so many. All that pain and drama us boys went through. For what? Who cares? He’s still here – messing with my head. The last time I saw Charlie was last night. No doubt he'll visit me again tonight. This Agent Orange sunset will always trigger it.
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