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War: "a state or period of armed conflict between nations, states or parties" (The American Heritage Dictionary, third edition,1994).
Location: South Vietnam
Date: November, 1966
During time of war (or in this case, conflict) the wounds that solders receive--for the most part--are of a physical nature: gunshot wound, fragment infiltration, flash burns, etc. In my personal experience, the most devastating wounds are the ones you do not see; the wounds of the mind. They're the ones that stay with you even after your physical healing. The mind also must have time to heal. But what do I mean, "to heal"? I have been injured (gunshot, knife, as well as PTSD) numerous of times, and I have had time to heal my outer shell, which I call my body. But what of the inner voids, the control central, the memory factory? The enemy within that lurks and waits for the time that you least expect, or for example: like having a mental scab, it's OK if you do not touch it, but when you pick at it, it begin to flow, and if you continually pick at it, it will get infected, and possibly take your life (or in this case your sanity).
Revenge is to be considered one of the most strongest emotions that man or woman can ever experience, and if one can control this barbarous drive, one can survive without guilt. Allow it to take control, and your dreams will remind you of your errors.
My first tour in Vietnam, happen to be my worst--I had a total of three--in my military career, and since I was a cherry (new kid on the block) with a life expectancy around a month, I felt somewhat shitty and alone. I carried too much fucking gear, I asked too many fucking questions, and most of all, I was scared shitless. On my third patrol, I was point man. This position so happened to be the best location on a patrol, since the VC always waited for the first man to pass before attempting an ambush. One guy in particular took me under his wing, he help me to adjust to the Nam (that's what we called it). He made my life bearable during this time of getting acquainted with this conflict. He always said to me that when the shooting starts, do not dive to the ground. To quote, "find the largest [fucking] object you can get behind it, and plant your ass there until you can return fire, asshole". This quote still brings a smile to heart, because of his caring for my safety. For that I will never forget him; but as fate would have it, his own suggestion to me cost him his own life.
On his last and fatal patrol, we were going through Charlie's backyard: searching for hidden weapon caches. We approached the open rice fields on the way to the village that was known to support the local homeboys; the night was still and silent. Then all we heard was a short puff, and we observed a stream of glowing light that arched high into the night. As the firefly of war hit the correct height, the glow enlarged, gained illuminating power, and disclosed all of what the night had hidden. We were at the mercy of the light and the enemy, and time was definitely not on our side. In a split second all around us seem like we were being attacked by lighted crickets, but this kind tore flesh and bone away form one's body and sent searing pain throughout the body. The familiar yell of my protector was a security blanket for me since the tone and commands always directed me to safety. But when he secured a location behind a solid-looking tree, all I heard was the sound of a M-60 type weapon firing at him. Time seemed to slow to a snail's pace as the rounds of death and distruction rained on my protector. The fiery rounds shattered and penetrated the tree, what I though was solid matter, and ripped into him. I screamed to him, but the time sped up once again and returned to the 'now' time where all life seems to dwell. When I reach him he cried and shook as his life juices flowed from his torn body. He was gone. The rounds had cut him in half, and all that was left was the shell of the man I respected and loved like the older brother I never had.
Then the most frighten thing happened. My fear was gone, and my blood boiled. My senses peak and my mouth drooled. All this could mean was that revenge was surfacing and it was time for me to take action. I grabbed my weapon, as well as his, and turned to face my brother's killer. I quit frankly cannot say what I was thinking, but all I wanted was blood, my enemies' blood. As I ran towards there line of defense, I began to fire at anything that moved. The rounds flew everywhere and hit everything. Yells were coming from all directions, but for a change they were from the enemies. When I reflect today, I sense that my mind reverted to time of old, when men fought in battle with no regard to himself or others. Like in the movies, the smoke begins to clear and wounded scurrying into their borrows of death. When my eyes of revenge cleared and displayed my distruction the tears of shame and guilt began to flow, because the enemy, the ones that murdered my brother, were just children: they could have only have been in their early teens or even grade school. Their faces looking at me in desperation, and they too had their juices of life flowing and assembling in pools in the burnt ground. The ground that was once their home, their playground, their fortress of family. In reaching down and pick up one of the smaller ones, he cried also, because I had cut him in two. To this day that sight still burns in my soul, my mind, my dreams. As I sit in my home writing this story I feel the pain and shame. My physical wounds have healed, but my mental scab which I just picked begins to flow the stream of memories. Killing is easy, and for a solder that is a fact of life, but the toughest challenge is seeing the faces, the faces of the ones that did not make it, especially the ones that did not make it by your hand.
The story The Toll of Revenge is Copyright 1998 by Frank A. Rojas.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.