Purveyors Of Death

The shot rips through his midsection. He holds the wound and when he takes his hands off, the blood is dark. Dark means death. The bullet is lodged in a major organ. The world becomes a haze. He’s only nineteen years old. Not even old enough to have a beer.

Artillery fire rips through the air. He can hear voices. Screams of, “MEDIC!” “MEDIC!” “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE MEDIC?”

Blood begins to fill in his lungs. And it’s now coming out of his mouth and sliding down his cheek, mixing with the dirt and the sweat, and the pus. He coughs. Breathing is getting harder. He stares up at the black sky, and thinks about home. A small town in the middle of nowhere.

He’s driving his old man’s Ford with Jenny who is nestled tightly on his chest. His arm is wrapped around hers. He’s 17. The war doesn't feel real to him. They’re going camping in the hills for the weekend. He’s going to lose his virginity and sleep underneath the stars.

“MEDIC! MEDIC! CHRIST WE NEED A MEDIC! STAY WITH US, CHUCK. STAY WITH US”

There’s no glory in war, he thinks. It isn’t a movie. It isn’t about bravery or cowardice or being a man. It’s about choices. Which, in the jungle, there aren’t many. There are orders and there are court martials. They knew this hill was a death trap. They’d said so many times. But no one listened. They told them to keep pushing ahead. The enemy was going to be stomped out.

Days without food. Days without resupply. Jungle rot all over their skin. Dry heaving, because there wasn’t anything in their stomach to throw up. The weight of the rucksacks on starved boys trudging up hills to their death.

75 lbs. 800 bullets. 2 canteens. 5-hand grenades. A 38 caliber pistol. A M-16 machine gun. An M-79 grenade launcher. Toiletries. Fatigues. And a blanket.

And now he was going to die on this hill. Die on this hill because Generals looking at maps and drinking warm whiskey, thought of a plan. Red-faced politicians screamed “Glory Hallelujah” as they thought about commendations for a brilliant kill count ratio.

But death couldn’t be seen on a map. Death couldn’t be seen within the glasses of warm brown liquor. Death couldn’t be seen in conversations of tactics, and firepower. Death couldn’t be seen in safe zones far from battle. Death could only be seen around advancing or retreating soldiers.

The screams fade into eternity, and he’s swept into the black.

Death can not be seen by the dead.