Copyright reserved. No part(s) of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author. Robert Flynn's VIETNAM NOTES Part Two I sat on a sandbag with a cooling monsoon breeze flowing by, and the fresh smell of growing-things perfuming the air. Huge, white, billowing rain-clouds drifted overhead, with wide patches of pure blue sky standing out between them. The village looked like a tropical island in the rice paddies, with little, toy palm-frond houses and palm trees everywhere. It was so beautiful and alive I wanted to cry with happiness. Villagers walked on the dikes, between rice paddies, so green that emeralds would look pale in comparison. They talked and laughed among themselves and I found myself wanting to join them. What a wonderful place to be, and a beautiful day to be alive. Then I got up, lifting my rifle, turned around and headed back to the war. As the truck dropped the six of us off, alone on the side of the mountain near Kontum, I couldn't help but wonder at the insanity that had put us there. A new firebase would be built here and we had been "volunteered" to start cutting it out of the jungle, with axes and machetes. Eventually the engineers were brought in with heavy equipment to really do the job, as there was no way that the amount of growth that needed to be cleared away, could possibly be done by sixty, let alone six men. (As the years have gone by, many mysteries about the happenings in Vietnam have cleared up for me, but why our lives were risked out there remains a puzzle.) We decided to check out the trails close by, to try to put a little insurance on our safety while working. None of us were used to any sort of recon patrol, so we were pretty nervous. It was a good thing we were walking slowly, because a little way down a trail I suddenly felt my boot snag a trip-wire. I froze, gritting my teeth, expecting to be blown up by my blunder but nothing happened. Afraid to even talk or move, I quietly called to the guy in front of me to wait up. He turned, puzzled, and stopped the others. I said "I'm hooked on a trip-wire. Try to find out what this damn thing is!" At that point their eyes got wide, and they all began backing away from me, down the trail. When I realized what they were doing, I, as carefully as possible, brought up my rifle and said "You better get back here and help me quick!" I was too scared to be really angry, and doubt that I'd have shot anybody, but thank God they didn't know that. Itchy sweat was pouring down my whole body, in that miserable, scorching humidity, and my muscles were shaking and about to cramp up, by the time they finally found the ends of that wire. When a voice said, "No sweat, it's only a trip-flare!" I almost collapsed, puked, and cried all at once. I only said something like "You assholes better not punk out on me again like that!" or some such swaggering bullshit. It was a very good lesson though. You never know what people will really do until the pressure is on, and that changes from day to day. It was that way for them, and it's that way for me too. It seems that Vietnam veterans are all supposed to be brave, dangerous, trained killers; primed and ready to show the world that they're not to be messed with. I'm sure that some came back just like that but training in itself doesn't make you brave, dangerous, or a killer. I, for one, went to Vietnam not feeling particularly "brave", and I surely came home with many more fears than I left with. I learned that being able to kill someone doesn't necessarily have anything to do with courage. If you take the goodness and love out of courage, what remains is merely insanity. Insanity is nothing to be proud of; I only wish more people knew that. **** "Harris" was a friend of mine. He was a tall, lanky, softly-spoken black man with an easy smile. A gentle man with a kind disposition and a wry sense of humor. Sometimes we'd pull guard together and talk quietly in the eerie silence of the bunkers at night; solving the troubles of mankind, or talking about what we were going to do, when we got back to "The World". It helped ease the fear and tension of our situation and also helped to stop us from falling asleep! Harris somehow transmitted confidence to me, just by being around. He was one of those people that it was hard to imagine God allowing anything bad to happen to, and being around him just felt somehow "safer". He was in one of our bunkers that VC sappers blew up one night. He was also one of the few wounded "lightly" enough to come back to the company out of all the guys that had been in those bunkers. I never saw most of those guys again, then one day old Harris came walking back and I was so very glad to see him, but something was wrong. He was distant and cold. It was like he didn't even know me. He was scary and alien, and from then on I kept my distance. It hurt, but he had been through an experience I hadn't, and, looking at him, I knew that it must have been much stranger and more horrible than I could imagine. Months later, a few of us had been drinking beer and celebrating our soon-to-be homecoming. We were staying in a large, relatively-safe base camp at Pleiku in a sandbagged shack that my company used as a transit barracks. We were processing-out to go home! Home! We couldn't believe it (we had yet to experience the "Welcome Home" of the 1960's for Vietnam Vets). The other guys had gone somewhere, and as I was sitting alone, reveling in the awesome feeling that it was almost over, who should walk in but Harris! It was great to see him before I left, and I greeted him with a smile and feeling of love in my heart. He looked at me with a funny smile, then came over and sat next to me on the bunk. He stared at me for a minute and then said "I knooow who you are! I knooow about your kind!" in an eerie, wavering voice. He sounded so much like an actor in a scary movie that I thought he was kidding and waited for the punch line. What happened next was so quick and surprising, I didn't realize what had occurred until it was over. I suddenly found myself with a choking arm around my neck and a knee in my back, with the pressure steadily increasing to the level of very serious pain. Harris began to laugh but the sound that he made was like a horrifying caricature of someone insane. It dawned on me then that this was no joke. He wasn't kidding! He was really, truly out-of-it, and I might be in terrible trouble. I still couldn't believe it. Then he said "I'm going to kill you now! I'm going to snap your spine! I know who you really are!" and that's when the terror kicked in. He began to slowly push in with his knee while choking me tighter and the pain became unbelievable. The shock of what was happening was almost worse than the pain then all of a sudden the pressure was released, and I dropped to the floor. My buddies had returned, and, seeing what was happening, had crept up behind Harris and yanked him off me. He didn't even fight or say anything, just sat on the bunk and stared at me looking totally vacant and emotionless. He was the most frightening person I've ever seen, then or since. I don't know what happened to him. I don't know to what weird place his mind went after the attack, that awful night, and I never will know. It's just one of those things I've had to learn to accept but something I find much harder to accept is that Harris wasn't alone. What happened to his mind happened to many, many more than just him. Who knows how many? Who knows what kind of torturous horrors they've lived with since, and may live with until the day they die? I sometimes find these thoughts very hard to accept but as with so many things, I'm powerless over it all. I just try to be thankful to God for the life he's given me. Thankful that I wasn't in that bunker with him; it was very close. Harris was a kind and loving man. I like to think he found his way back. He was my friend, and I miss him. **** Continue