Lift Aloft

There is a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes on the central console.

Wind whips through open doors, and a green leafy sea flows beneath the hull. Like a jealous and unpredictable ocean, a blanket of trees forms an ebb and flow that is less than predictable; starbursts of bright orange or yellow are the only sign of jetties and shallows that will tear a ship apart.

The spang of metal on metal reverberates through the airframe as the jungle ocean roils, and a Kalishnikov mist reaches skyward.

Not a word is spoken, and the door gunner does what door gunners do. For a few moments, the sea of trees below is churned; soon, the ocean calms.

Two men, alert, awake, and weary, watch the gunner at work. A third man lies supine on a canvas gurney, eyes clenched shut. He is ashen, gray, fading in and out of consciousness. When he’s awake, he grimaces in pain. Blood pools beneath him, and everyone’s hands are stained crimson.

They are all too tired to speak, too stunned to be afraid, too shocked to care. One of the men seated upright wears a dirty bandage on his left hand, and another where his left boot used to be. “Million Dollar Wounds,” they said. Folks get by fine with seven toes instead of ten.

The other passenger stares at the world with only one eye. Vermilion gauze makes a patch, and he is the resident pirate of this airship.

Ninety mile an hour winds whip through the cabin, but the dying man on his back wants a smoke. He’s come to, and in a moment of clarity, catches the one remaining eye of his companion. With trembling hands, he pantomimes the act of smoking.

There is a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes on the central console. The G.I. leans forward between the two officers operating the vehicle, and without asking, helps himself and divides the secret booty. Shielding the flame as best he can, he lights up.

Almost immediately, the wind whips away any chance of a good inhale, but he tries, just the same. The cherry flares, glowing brightly and burning furiously.

His fingers leave pink stains on the white paper of the cigarette.

He leans down, gently and lovingly placing bloodstained tobacco between the lips of his mortally wounded friend.

The man on the gurney smiles his thanks and does his best to finish the stolen, secret cigarette before death robs him of his last chance at momentary joy.

After they land, the captain notices his Lucky Strikes are missing. When he finds the pack stuck to the deck, crimson and tattered, he doesn’t mind. He fishes out one of the three smokes he has left.

It’s just another day in Lai Khê, 1968.