Memories Unleashed by Carl Rudolph Small

Author:Carl Rudolph Small
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HISTORY/Military/Vietnam War
Publisher: Casemate Publishers

The marine’s Love, writing to him from half a world away.

Twenty minutes. That’s all the time they had: They extended their hand; gripping each other’s forearm; a warrior’s handshake. Her brother turned to leave.

“Be good, be careful. May the good Lord take a liking to ya, but not too soon.” he said; a saying passed down from his Love’s father at every goodbye.

Neither one knew when; or if, they would see the other alive again.

CHAPTER 20

The Devil’s Playground

Rain beat down on the canvas hooch. Hard rain; all day, every day and all night, every night; monsoon season. The squad leader lay on his cot, back from a night action two hours ago as dawn broke without the sun. He closed his eyes, inhaling the fragrance that drifted up to him: Wing Song: Hers; with its memories; her arms around his neck; her hair across his face. He held her open letter, savoring the moment. “God, please bring me back to her,” he whispered.

Shouting jarred him to his feet. He tucked the letter into his wallet, grabbed his rifle and flak jacket and ran out of his hooch. Angry voices in the compound. A marine lay on the ground. Blood flowed from above his eye, mixing into the red mud of Vietnam. Four marines threw stones at him. Their bush hats and green T-shirts were streaked with mud as if they had been fighting. The squad leader ran and got him to his feet. He looked for help. Where the hell is everybody? Stones struck against them as he held the other marine up. No one came out from their hooches. It wasn’t because of the downpour. He knew the truth. The marine that was hurt was white. The stone throwers were black. Nobody wanted to get involved. It was bullshit.

He moved them forward. His stride kept an even pace across the base compound, his body blocking most of the stones from hitting the other marine. He raised his open palm high in the air for the stone throwers to stop. “You start this?” he asked the bleeding marine. He didn’t know if he had antagonized them, but knew he had before. Damn the black–white hate shit. He didn’t understand why the hate was there. His squad was a mix of race; white, black, brown (Mexican). From all he had experienced, the Corps treated all the same; green. Their marine unit scheduled to go home, was now “stood down.” That meant no more operations in the Bush, just local patrols around the command base. Their duties now comprised burning the latrine waste, picking up litter and having drill formations. Damn the formations. Marching, drills, polishing jungle boots, tuck in your shirt, shave: petty crap, but needed when they got stateside. Two weeks ago they had been covering each other’s back, now this, restlessness because of boredom. The squad leader thought of words his mother used at times: idle hands make a devil’s playground.

“Put the stones down. The enemy is out there,” he said.

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