Just Another Day
by Ken Hornbeck
L
aying by a tree wounded from head to toe not saying a word not even a
whimper, there was some black soldier staring at me or at least it seemed
he was. Doc checked him out, looked over at me and his look said it all,
"...this guy wasn't going to make it". So Doc moved on to
another casualty.
He was about 6' 2" or taller, maybe 6'4". Who
cares? As I sat across from him smoking my non-filter Camel cigarette,
we just stared at each other. I was going to be his last image in this
world. He had been shot by a machine gun in some bunker complex, which
was up the trail near the top of the hill. Hard-core NVA Regulars
surrounded us. We were in a saddle, caught between two hills.
I was taking a smoke break from the action when they carried him down
and laid him across from me. He was shot in the thigh, with two in his
chest and one in his eye. The eye wound was strange, surprisingly not
bleeding very much. Doc gave him some morphine and he was more
comfortable I suppose. Usually you don't give morphine to people
with head wounds. It can be fatal. But it seemed the right thing to
do. There was no hope.
I was caught in a cold numb trance, just starring at him as he looked
into my eyes. No words were spoken. There was chaos all around us but
in my mind there was silence, just the two of us. I just puffed on the
cigarette blowing the smoke out like I didn't give a fuck. It was
better him than me.
I often thought that moment was special for him. He didn't have
to die alone. As I saw his eyes glaze over I knew life had left his
body. I put out my cigarette, crawled over and closed his eyelids,
touched his forehead and picked up my weapon heading back up the hill.
It was his last day. Just another day for me.
Ken Hornbeck
D/1/501: Vietnam 1969-'70