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Some of you may know an old cavalryman, or a WW2 cannoneer, or maybe a Korean War infantryman.
If so, you can relate.
*******************************
Cavalryman's Lament
"We turned in our horses in forty-two."
He sighed and ordered more Ba Moi Ba,
one for each of us, which seemed damn friendly to me.
The old warrant officer lit a cigar and laughed,
the way soldiers do when they feel a story coming on.
"I drove a tank in North Africa.
They called us armored cavalry."
The smile faded from his wrinkled face.
We talked of armor and steel and eighty-eights
and the beauty and horror of tanks burning
under an African moon.
He left the Army in forty-five, a decorated man,
medals on his chest and burn scars on his arm.
Five years later he returned, a tanker once again.
Korea flared and died away while he froze on the German frontier.
"Then I went to flight school.
They gave me a warrant and a helicopter."
He shook his head, as if he still couldn't believe
the Army had done that.
He glanced up at the sign over the bar.
Kansas City Bar and Grill, bold letters
painted on varnished plywood.
"We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto."
I was expected to laugh, and did.
In the distance, across the runway,
howitzers fired a greeting for Charlie.
Somewhere on the perimeter
a nervous gunner fired up the night.
It's true -- a Quonset hut just inside the main gate
at Vinh Long is a long ways from Kansas.
"In sixty-five we landed up north,
cavalry again. And not a horse in sight."
I ordered a fresh round of Thirty-three
to better lubricate the incoming story.
"We hunted dinks in the highlands."
His eyes had that inward, time traveling look.
"Think of the words we didn't know.
Tiger beer. Boom-boom. Dinky-dau.
Sin Loi, mother fucker."
"Number Ten, GI," I said.
He didn't hear, blew smoke at the ceiling,
toward an NVA helmet hanging there,
nailed through a bullet hole in one side.
"Go home when you can and stay home," he said.
Don't ever come back, don't let the green get in your blood.
A man can get to like the smell of hydraulic fluid
and jet fuel mixed with jungle and hot guns."
He stubbed out the cigar and leaned on his elbows,
hands kneading the muscles of his upper arms.
"On my second tour . . ."
Memory roughened his voice, halted it.
"On my second tour," he began again.
"I was down south, in the Delta, down by Rach Gia."
He moved table things as props.
"It was a troop lift. Me and Chicago were flying guns.
That's not his name, but it will do.
We each had cherry co-pilots, but good gunners.
Our job was to fly cover for the lift birds.
You know how it is."
I did know. We'd come off a mission just like it.
Except ours, that day, had been routine. Quiet.
He wasn't thinking about today.
"The landing zone was hot.
RPGs. Automatic weapons. A couple of point-five-ones.
Two lift birds went down in the LZ. One crashed a mile away.
We called for help and pitched in.
I expended my rockets into a tree line.
Chicago worked over a set of huts and took out a fifty-one.
My crew chief was hit, part of the instrument panel blew out.
We were in deep shit. It was time to dee-dee."
"I went out low, to the west.
Chicago came out behind, slow, dragging smoke.
He said something about a hydraulic fire.
Said it was no problem. He didn't say anything else.
I looked over my shoulder just as his bird slid sideways
and went in.
Hard.
Nobody got out."
"I got a black hat," said the old warrant.
"A black hat with crossed cavalry sabers.
We're the new cavalry, they say."
He lit another cigar and smoked in silence.
I ordered more beer and waited.
He stared at his lighter for a moment,
then clicked it shut.
"How do you know when your number is up?
Chicago missed that wake-up call.
The dinks got lucky with a fifty-one caliber round.
Clipped the tail rotor drive shaft.
We lost four men for want of an anti-torque rotor."
"Jesus," I said, quiet. "Number ten."
"Number ten thousand, GI."
He drained his beer and reached for his black hat.
"I ought to go home.
Get the stink of rice paddies out of my nose.
Walk in a green park without worrying about incoming."
Hat in hand, he headed for the door.
"But what the hell would I do for excitement?"
I thought of Chicago, down and dead.
There were other friends, his and mine,
gone to their end in black smoke and orange flame.
I picked up my own black hat. "We're fucked, ain't we Pop?"
"Sin Loi, GI. Sin fucking Loi."
© JR Hume, 2005
If so, you can relate.
*******************************
Cavalryman's Lament
"We turned in our horses in forty-two."
He sighed and ordered more Ba Moi Ba,
one for each of us, which seemed damn friendly to me.
The old warrant officer lit a cigar and laughed,
the way soldiers do when they feel a story coming on.
"I drove a tank in North Africa.
They called us armored cavalry."
The smile faded from his wrinkled face.
We talked of armor and steel and eighty-eights
and the beauty and horror of tanks burning
under an African moon.
He left the Army in forty-five, a decorated man,
medals on his chest and burn scars on his arm.
Five years later he returned, a tanker once again.
Korea flared and died away while he froze on the German frontier.
"Then I went to flight school.
They gave me a warrant and a helicopter."
He shook his head, as if he still couldn't believe
the Army had done that.
He glanced up at the sign over the bar.
Kansas City Bar and Grill, bold letters
painted on varnished plywood.
"We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto."
I was expected to laugh, and did.
In the distance, across the runway,
howitzers fired a greeting for Charlie.
Somewhere on the perimeter
a nervous gunner fired up the night.
It's true -- a Quonset hut just inside the main gate
at Vinh Long is a long ways from Kansas.
"In sixty-five we landed up north,
cavalry again. And not a horse in sight."
I ordered a fresh round of Thirty-three
to better lubricate the incoming story.
"We hunted dinks in the highlands."
His eyes had that inward, time traveling look.
"Think of the words we didn't know.
Tiger beer. Boom-boom. Dinky-dau.
Sin Loi, mother fucker."
"Number Ten, GI," I said.
He didn't hear, blew smoke at the ceiling,
toward an NVA helmet hanging there,
nailed through a bullet hole in one side.
"Go home when you can and stay home," he said.
Don't ever come back, don't let the green get in your blood.
A man can get to like the smell of hydraulic fluid
and jet fuel mixed with jungle and hot guns."
He stubbed out the cigar and leaned on his elbows,
hands kneading the muscles of his upper arms.
"On my second tour . . ."
Memory roughened his voice, halted it.
"On my second tour," he began again.
"I was down south, in the Delta, down by Rach Gia."
He moved table things as props.
"It was a troop lift. Me and Chicago were flying guns.
That's not his name, but it will do.
We each had cherry co-pilots, but good gunners.
Our job was to fly cover for the lift birds.
You know how it is."
I did know. We'd come off a mission just like it.
Except ours, that day, had been routine. Quiet.
He wasn't thinking about today.
"The landing zone was hot.
RPGs. Automatic weapons. A couple of point-five-ones.
Two lift birds went down in the LZ. One crashed a mile away.
We called for help and pitched in.
I expended my rockets into a tree line.
Chicago worked over a set of huts and took out a fifty-one.
My crew chief was hit, part of the instrument panel blew out.
We were in deep shit. It was time to dee-dee."
"I went out low, to the west.
Chicago came out behind, slow, dragging smoke.
He said something about a hydraulic fire.
Said it was no problem. He didn't say anything else.
I looked over my shoulder just as his bird slid sideways
and went in.
Hard.
Nobody got out."
"I got a black hat," said the old warrant.
"A black hat with crossed cavalry sabers.
We're the new cavalry, they say."
He lit another cigar and smoked in silence.
I ordered more beer and waited.
He stared at his lighter for a moment,
then clicked it shut.
"How do you know when your number is up?
Chicago missed that wake-up call.
The dinks got lucky with a fifty-one caliber round.
Clipped the tail rotor drive shaft.
We lost four men for want of an anti-torque rotor."
"Jesus," I said, quiet. "Number ten."
"Number ten thousand, GI."
He drained his beer and reached for his black hat.
"I ought to go home.
Get the stink of rice paddies out of my nose.
Walk in a green park without worrying about incoming."
Hat in hand, he headed for the door.
"But what the hell would I do for excitement?"
I thought of Chicago, down and dead.
There were other friends, his and mine,
gone to their end in black smoke and orange flame.
I picked up my own black hat. "We're fucked, ain't we Pop?"
"Sin Loi, GI. Sin fucking Loi."
© JR Hume, 2005
