Five Four Whiskey by Robert Sweatmon

Author:Robert Sweatmon [Sweatmon, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781594165863
Publisher: Westholme Publishing

Track Fifteen

CUE: Folsom Prison Blues, JOHNNY CASH

Every man who has ever stood in the line of battle has had to come to the realization that death is a part of that endeavor. Each soldier finds his own way into and out of the mindset that must accompany combat, and each must deal with it in his own way. Most make that difficult journey in the company of their comrades and come out of it emotionally scarred but a bit wiser in the realities of life at a more elemental level. Some wait until civilian life has resumed in a more peaceful place to deal with the emotional impact. Some never deal with it at all. I suppose there has never been a war that has not left some of its emotionally shattered veterans standing hollow-eyed on street corners, still traumatized by the human price such wars always exact. Certainly the war in Vietnam was no exception.

I have often thought about those war-shattered personalities that have never been able to shake off the emotional effects of a year in the fray, so many decades ago. It is a subject that has haunted me and made me search my own soul and my own experience for an answer. Why did I and so many like me manage to come home and reenter society without being socially and emotionally crippled by regret of actions taken in combat? After years of reflection on the subject, I think I may have stumbled on an answer. I don't know why I never thought about it before now.

As a boy who was raised in the ranch country of west Texas, I was schooled in the art of shooting from the earliest age. The men of my family were all great hunters, and my father was one of the greatest wing shots in America. He was chosen as a member of the US Marine Corps Skeet Team, which gives some credence to my brags about his prowess with a gun. Safety was always a big thing with my father, and so when it was my time to begin shooting, he introduced me to the power of the gun in an unforgettable way.

On a cool autumn morning, we walked out to the open pit my family used as a shooting backdrop. My father carried his shotgun under his arm, and I was excited at the prospect of beginning my lessons on shooting. As we neared the far end of the shooting pit, I saw that there was a small wire cage there. Inside was a full-grown hen, white and quite pretty, with a red comb that seemed to flip this way and that as she cocked her head to see what we were doing. As we approached, my father slipped the gun from under his arm and jacked a shell into the chamber. His hand came to my shoulder, and steadily he brought me up to stand next to him, facing the cage and the chicken inside. He bent low and said to me, in a soft but serious voice, “I want you to remember this.

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