I strolled along
the water's edge, enjoying myself, kicking the cool and ultra-clear water onto
the sand. The sea salt wafted in to my nostril as the early morning sunshine
warmed my cheeks. Looking up from the water, I saw a tall and very beautiful
Vietnamese woman walking out of the jungle. She wore a shimmering green tunic
with gold trim and matching pants. Three teenage boys, wearing only shorts,
were laughing and talking to each other as they walked along a short distance
behind her. I recognized them. My eyes grew wide. I held my breath. Those were
the boys we killed on our first day.
“He was watching us. He let us die,” one
of the boys said to the Vietnamese woman as he pointed at me with his left
hand. His words came out of his mouth like ship's ropes, wrapping around my
stomach and squeezing all of the air out of my lungs.
The Vietnamese woman walked up to me, her
gaze warm and caring. She asked, “That wasn't you. Was it?”
I knew that she knew that it was me. She
wasn't trying to find out. She was addressing the man I was supposed to be. I
wanted to say that I was sorry, but no sound came out of my mouth.
“Look how beautiful they are,” she said
as she turned and pointed to the boys. “They make their mothers proud. Why
would anyone want to hurt them?”
The tone of her voice was firm yet
nurturing, giving me the courage to say, “Yes, that was me watching. I am so
sorry that I made their mothers cry.” Moisture left my throat making it hard to
swallow. “I didn't stop the killing.”
“Look into their eyes,” she said. “They
do not hate you.”
Trembling, I turned my head towards them.
The boys came closer, becoming younger with each step, until they became
toddlers. The Vietnamese woman took my hand and said, “See how beautiful they
are.”
The boys began running toward me, their
arms outstretched and their faces aglow. As they ran closer to me, each of the
boys looked exactly like my two-year-old son, Jeremy. I stood, mesmerized. They
ran by me toward a church on my right.
The heavy rumble of
machinery behind me made me tremble. I recognized that sound. I turned around
and saw the 22 foot long gray barrel of my ship’s five inch gun turn toward the
church. I turned back to the toddlers, who all looked like my son. I wanted to
run after them to make them stop, but I couldn’t get my feet to move. I shot my
hands up, yelling, “Wait! Wait!” The sound of my own voice echoed and raced
back to our first day on the gun line. I tried to scream louder but they kept
running toward the church. BAM! I jumped. Sand, dust, smoke, fire and body
parts flew at me from the blast knocking me over. “Oh God, not Jeremy. Not my
son! Noooooooooo!” I cried.
The Vietnamese woman knelt beside me and
wrapped one of her arms around my shoulder. She wrapped her other arm around my
head, pulling it into her bosom. She stroked my head, as tears slid down my
cheeks and snot oozed out of my nose. Her hands were soft and warm, like my
mother's hands.
“We must do what we must do,” she said. I
began to fall asleep in her arms. “We must do what we must do,” she repeated,
her voice fading. “We must do what we must do.”
No comments:
Post a Comment