War wears us down and diminishes our wits. If I ever meet Dawson again, I'll ask to see his hand. I'm sure he'll laugh at my request, as he remembers this incident:Dawson stood six feet, three inches tall. The racks we slept in were only six feet long. I suggested that we sleep head to head to allow his feet to hang freely over the end of his rack. I didn’t want him kicking me in the head while he slept. I showed him his locker, across from his rack.
Later that evening, I stripped down to my Jockey briefs and pulled myself up into my rack, thankful that we had one more person who could stand watch. That meant more opportunities to get at least a full five hours of sleep between battle station watches. Dawson was already in his rack. He rolled over on his stomach with one of his feet sticking out beyond his blanket. I was amazed at how quickly he fell asleep. I rolled over on my back, put my head on my pillow and wondered if his feet would get cold, hanging over the end of his rack.
Later that evening, I stripped down to my Jockey briefs and pulled myself up into my rack, thankful that we had one more person who could stand watch. That meant more opportunities to get at least a full five hours of sleep between battle station watches. Dawson was already in his rack. He rolled over on his stomach with one of his feet sticking out beyond his blanket. I was amazed at how quickly he fell asleep. I rolled over on my back, put my head on my pillow and wondered if his feet would get cold, hanging over the end of his rack.
Before I knew it, the Dream Weaver came to visit me in my sleep. Bam! What was that? Oh shit! We’re under attack! We’ve been hit! Water poured into our berthing compartment.
“Get out! Get out!” someone yelled.
I jumped down from my rack and flew up the ladder. I didn’t have time to put any clothes on. I was still in my underwear. As I raced along the exterior passageway, something hit the top of my head. I must have been knocked out because I came to lying on the sand. The night obscured my vision. I heard voices. They were Vietnamese. They grew louder as they approached. I didn't know what they were saying. I couldn't see them, only hear them. One of them poked me in the ribs and mumbled something. When one of them ran his hand across my forehead to my mouth, I lunged forward, biting down hard. Feeling the bones and hearing him scream. Victory was mine.
“Ow, shit! What the hell! Let go!”
What? That's English. Whose voice is that?
The cobwebs of slumber withered away and I realized that I was still on the ship. If my teeth hadn’t chomped the fingers of a Viet Cong, who did they bite? I wondered if they were the fingers of the guy who had the current sounding and security watch and if he had been trying to scare me. Then my voice recognition kicked in. Oh my god, it was Dawson’s hand that crossed over my face!
Laughing that I had been tricked by the Dream Weaver, and embarrassed, I whispered, “I am so sorry, Dawson.”
“Why did you bite me?” he asked.
“I didn't realize that it was you,” I said. “I had a nightmare. When you dragged your fingers across my face, I thought you were the enemy out to kill me. If you're lucky, my teeth marks will be the only war wounds you'll get.”Dawson had stretched his arm out while he slept on his stomach. As he did, his hand dragged across my face. Poor Dawson had a rude awakening.
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