Our gunship flew in
to a broken-spirit firebase
at an angle of a boomerang
slung side-armed,
dust-deviling Recon guys,
the door gunner
riding the pig, all of us
holding ourselves together,
& no one had to tell us
to move fast. I saw a GI
chasing after his jungle hat.
Three black soldiers
slapped hands beside smoky
barrels, an almost
dance, & the crack of an AK47.
*
A corporal came over to me,
his right hand
out, saying, “You’re our
radio man, huh?”
All I could say was,
“Yeah, that’s me. Billy.”
He looked me up,
down, sideways too,
& said, “I’m Truth Parker,
but my buddies
call me One Hundred
Per Cent.” I laughed,
& then said, “Pure bred,
huh?” His dark skin
was fresh, deep, & healthy.
Looking in my eyes,
he said, “I’m unblessed.
Don’t get close to me
out there.” We both just
stood there, alone.
The dust was gone. The grassy
surrounding
was so thick it was
the weather. Truth said,
“How does it feel
to replace a dead man?”
*
All nine of us new men
most likely raised hell
nightlong in our sleep,
dreaming mortar fire
igniting the midnight sky.
I couldn’t see myself
growing up in a big city,
& now about to wade
out into grass among snakes.
Reveille had come
& gone, wet light glinting
off our M16s. When
Truth walked over,
I said, “You Kevin—
or Truth?” He grinned,
saying to me, “Truth
is the middle name
of my whole big family
going back a hundred-
eighty-odd years.”
He looked me up & down,
nodding his head,
saying, “I’m Recon’s sniper,
& that is why
I carry this long-tall M14.
Do you think
I can take out a phantom?”
I shook my head,
not knowing what Truth
was really saying.
He turned away sharply,
spat in the dust,
& said, “You don’t know,
do you, private?”
As a dark day floated
on the mind’s blue-
black, what I need to know?
Now, for me,
I stripped myself
of that eternal hair shirt
back at headquarters.
Truth was saying,
“Don’t get too close to me,
‘cause my job is
to take out Black Lang
of the 5th Vietcong
who kills white troops
& leaves us black ones
alive.” In his face naked pain
& the unsayable.
But he said, “There’s a bounty
on his head
alive or dead, & it unminds me.
Look, he’s not
one of my boys, you know.
He came here
from Senegal, a code-name
with the French
Foreign Legion, & went
to the other side.”
I strolled to the latrine to be
alone, to think,
& to let my mind speak
to itself—oh, so slowly:
at least, I’m not here to burn
shit in 50-gallon
drums on a lonely hill in Danang.
