Apocalypses

By Pueros

Don’s Story, part I

(Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, February 1968)

Don and Jim were almost inseparable. The handsome 18 year-olds, full of energetic healthy life, came from the same state and similar poor farming backgrounds. They had been drafted at the same time, trained together and then been posted simultaneously to Vietnam in the same unit, part of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 20th Infantry.

Don and Jim were not old enough to vote in state elections of the time or drink alcohol. However, it seemed that they were old enough to be expected to be prepared to die for their country, even though many of those of similar age but of rich backgrounds had somehow eluded service in the Far East killing fields, including a certain future President of their nation.

In combat, Don and Jim shared everything, including the same unwashed spoon to eat and canteen of water, as well as, in the quieter moments, their most intimate thoughts, about Vietnam, soldiery, home, family and, above all, girls. Off-duty, they even lost their virginity, in the similar clumsy ways of sexually inexperienced young males, to the same Saigon prostitutes, fortunately somehow avoiding venereal infection along the way.

In their present combat mission, Don, Jim and their comrades had orders to shell the village ahead with mortars. “Forget about the collateral damage,” they had been commanded, “as the fucking place is full of VC!”

In fact, field intelligence was incorrect. The simple peasant village had no Vietcong present, just one officer of the North Vietnamese Army, or NVA, and he was just arriving.

Don’s Story, part 2

(Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, 1 month later, March 1968)

The present combat mission was to take a jungle-covered hilltop, believed to have been used by the Vietcong, or VC, as a lookout post. Field intelligence suggested that the scene had been long deserted. However, Don and Jim immediately realised that this suggestion was once more incorrect, as their small patrol advanced up the incline.

Don and Jim might not have experienced much combat so far in Vietnam but they had quickly grown to recognise the telltale signs of enemy presence. These included the obviously well used foxholes and trenches they regularly encountered as they proceeded, and trees recently chopped down to provide extra cover. These features might currently have been deserted but that did not mean that similar positions further up the hill would be similarly devoid of VC.

Unfortunately, the acute apprehension of Don and Jim, and most of the other young men who comprised the patrol, was not shared by their leader, a pristine young lieutenant, determined to prove himself a hero in this war. With more experienced and battle-hardened soldiers, the young officer might have suffered a mutiny or a bullet in the back but, on this occasion, the infantry group just followed their training to trust and obey their superior. The remorseless advance upwards therefore continued.

Jim was one of the leaders, with Don just behind. The latter, in particular, felt instinctively nervous about the situation and advised his best friend, as they progressed, “Take care, buddy!”

Unfortunately, Don’s words came too late as a host of enemy shot up from nearby foxholes and launched an intense fusillade of machine gun fire at the approaching Americans. Bullets immediately riddled Jim’s legs, shattering his knees and causing the young man to collapse immobile to the ground.

Meanwhile, a bullet grazed Don’s head and he fell unconscious. In marked contrast to his previous bravado, the lieutenant, recognising that his small patrol was heavily outnumbered, ordered an immediate retreat.

A couple of Don’s colleagues subsequently managed to drag their unconscious colleague, actually otherwise just suffering a flesh wound, to safety. However, Jim’s position was simply too exposed and the lieutenant, now visibly quaking in fear, ordered him to be left behind.

It was a couple of hours later that the lieutenant returned, not only with a recovered Don and the other survivors of the original patrol but also substantial reinforcements. However, the enemy had now disappeared, as if into thin air.

Don’s only aim was, of course, to find Jim, hoping that his injured best friend had somehow evaded capture. Unfortunately, the young man’s wish was to be quickly disillusioned.

As Don came across Jim’s dead body, the young man not only instantly vomited at the sight of what had been perpetrated on his best friend but also fainted in traumatic shock.

Don’s Story, part 3

(Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, a few days later, March 1968)

By the time the angry and frustrated platoon of men of Charlie Company entered My Lai, many of their number had been maimed or killed in the area during the preceding weeks, not least the horribly mutilated Jim. The agitated troops therefore entered the village poised for engagement with the elusive VC.

The commanding Lieutenant Calley launched the ‘search and destroy’ mission by ordering his men to enter the village firing, although there had been no report of the presence of any armed opposition.

According to eyewitnesses, the subsequent dead included several bayoneted old men, with some praying women and children shot in the back of the head. At least one young girl was raped before being killed. For his part, the platoon leader was said to have rounded up a group of the villagers, ordered them into a ditch and mowed them down in a fury of machine gun fire.

Don, still grieving for Jim, was infused with intense fury and hatred and now could not help but relish in complying with his lieutenant’s commands.

When the 18 year-old’s unit subsequently left the devastated village, Don could not recall how many of the 350 unarmed men, women and children left dead he had personally shot.

Don’s Story, part 4

(Quang Ngai Province, Vietnam, February 1998)

Don’s life, and character, changed forever when he had found Jim’s dead body. Thereafter, he never allowed himself to become so close to anyone again. He instead became cold and aloof, very much a loner, not only during the remainder of his service in Vietnam but also afterwards as a U.S. civilian.

Don had somehow survived the war. He had become an excellent and highly courageous soldier, albeit one renowned for brutal ruthlessness. In combat, he did not seem to care for his own safety, only really wanting vengeance on his perceived enemies for what they had perpetrated on Jim and many others like him. His reward was a Purple Heart, which, after his return home, he kept hidden away in his underwear drawer.

After service, Don had married in the U.S.A., and the union had produced a son. However, the Vietnam Veteran’s personal demons quickly led to marital breakup. Subsequent relationships with women were very short-lived for similar reasons and eventually sexual solace was restricted to buying the time of whores.

Don also acquired no other male friends, painful remembrance of Jim preventing him from wanting such companionship. He also found that working alone as a home-based computer programmer suited his new temperament best.

Don’s nights were often ones of great torment, regular awful nightmares causing him frequently to wake up covered in sweat, even if it was the middle of winter and his remote home was surrounded by snow drifts. Amidst this existence, his only consolation was drink until, one day, he began to believe that he could take no more. He started to ask himself disturbing questions. ‘What’s this miserable life for?’ ‘Why am I still here, not Jim?’ ‘I’m so unhappy, is it worth carrying on?’

Thousands of Vietnam Veterans had committed suicide after their return to the U.S.A.. This was not only because of mental distress resulting from their war experiences but also, for many, the disappointing welcome from, and attitudes of, their compatriots back home, who did not appear to know how to deal with traumatised defeated men.

It seemed that Don would soon follow this path. In fact, he already possessed a loaded revolver and increasingly brought it out of its hiding place, pondering whether now should be the time. However, he had so far demurred and was eventually saved from his sad intent by visiting an internet website for Veterans, which was offering the chance to return to Vietnam.

The proposed visit was designed to help Veterans overcome any longstanding traumas about the war. Don suddenly realised that he had nothing to lose by going, certainly not fears of triggering horrific remembrances because he was already suffering such recall nightly. However, he was deeply apprehensive about what the country and its people might have become, after a quarter of a century of rule by the Commie bastards.

The three-week trip seemed to fly by and Don was amazed to discover a peaceful country, full of very friendly people, proud of their nation despite the pervading poverty. He also now appreciated that much of this indigence had been caused by the war and, as in Cuba, subsequent economic embargoes imposed by the U.S.A., just because his own homeland did not like the political philosophy of the ruling elite.

Don was particularly astounded at the overwhelming friendliness of the children, who would often mob him and his fellow American tourists, all Veterans, whenever they emerged from their coach. None of these latest generation of impecunious Vietnamese begged. They just exhibited genuine warm curiosity at meeting the huge Yanks, from what they considered the exotic U.S.A. and invariably physically much bigger than their own fathers.

Although the war was a regular topic of conversation during the trip, between the Veterans themselves and their hosts, especially their bilingual 52 year-old Vietnamese travel courier, no bitterness, just morose sadness, was evident on both sides, as awful experiences were sometimes shared.

Don could not even feel any hatred for a small, thin man they met on a bicycle, whom their courier knew as a great war hero, responsible for killing many of the enemy.

Don could tell from the courier’s eyes as they talked that the man had endured many dark experiences during the war, most of which he was unwilling to recount, presumably because they were too painful to recall or relate. The American, who was similarly quiet about the full horrors he had both suffered and perpetrated, could sympathise with his attitude.

Don’s Story, part 5

(Hanoi, Vietnam, February 1998)

Don was returning to the U.S.A. the next day, having visited many of the battle sites where he had fought. He would never forgive his Vietnamese opponents for the atrocities they had perpetrated during the war, not least on Jim, for which his friend had later often retaliated in kind, and he would also never forget. However, as he practised his long unused talented singing voice, to the accompaniment of a fellow Veteran’s guitar on the stage of his Hanoi hotel ballroom, he knew that he had undergone a cathartic experience.

Don was singing the Rolling Stones’ first number one record, ‘It’s All Over Now’, which had been one of Jim’s favourites because his deceased friend recalled dancing to it on his first date as a 14 year-old in 1964.

Don recognised that, as he returned home with new friends from amongst his fellow Veteran travellers, most of whom had undergone similar defining transformations, his life in the U.S.A. would be much different. After all, he had a 25 year-old son, an officer in the Marine Corps, to look up again after many years of neglect. He also felt that permanent female company would be welcome once more. Meanwhile, the dance floor was full of young Vietnamese, dancing happily to the 48 year-old’s American’s song.

The next morning, Don and the other Veterans said their farewells to their 52 year-old courier, who had escorted them with great proficiency throughout their visit. They had initially been concerned that the man, an employee of the State Tourist Board, might be a secret policeman, assigned not only to keep an eye of them but also to restrict their movements to designated areas. In the event, this worry proved unfounded and the itinerary of the journey around Vietnam was altered without fuss, whenever truly practicable, to facilitate the guests’ wishes to make unexpected stops or diversions.

Careful questioning of the courier’s background had solicited the information that the man was a former officer of the NVA. However, having grown to know each other rather well over the previous three weeks, the Americans and their former enemy parted on good terms.

Neither side felt able to forgive or forget. However, they now said their farewells amidst an atmosphere of mutual sorrow for what had happened and respect for their former adversaries as fellow humans, full of the emotional strengths and weaknesses everyone possesses. Such attitudes were helped considerably by all now having a greater perspective of each other’s earlier positions.

As his airplane lifted itself off the runway of Hanoi airport, previously the recipient of many American bombs, Don made a comment to one of his new Veteran friends, seated next to him.

“You know,” Don declared, “there’s many things that I’ve learnt from this trip. One is that it’s governments that cause wars not people, who are just the ones to suffer. Another is that there’s always two sides to an argument, and your own government mightn’t always be on the right side of it. My country right or wrong is utter bullshit!”

Meanwhile, the courier, leaving the airport terminal below, was experiencing similar thoughts.

Xuan’s mind then painfully and guiltily turned back 30 years.

Xuan’s Story, part 1

(Ninh Binh Province, North Vietnam, December 1967)

22 year-old Xuan, a capable officer of the NVA, was on rare leave, visiting his home village after fighting the Americans in the south almost none-stop for two years. His closest family, comprising one surviving aged grandfather, a pair of similarly old grandmothers, father, mother, three younger brothers and two younger sisters, all lived in the one communal dwelling. The residence was of a simple wooden structure, with much cane used in its construction.

Xuan had just paid a courtesy call on an uncle when the bombs began to fall. The B52 overhead had not been able to reach its intended target because of low rain-cloud cover but the pilot was darned if he was going to return to base with a full bomb-load “When the damned country of those Commie bastards is underneath!”

The U.S. Air Force officer did not know onto whom or what he had shed his deadly cargo and did not care, instead just hoping that as much damage and as many deaths as possible would be caused.

Xuan, however, did care because, as he approached his family dwelling, the first bomb hit and the wooden structure, with all his family inside because of the rain, exploded in a great fireball.

Xuan’s Story, part 2

(Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, two months later, February 1968)

Xuan emerged from the jungle and immediately saw her, and the instant recognition was mutual. The 18 year-old peasant girl, like all the others in the village innocent non-combatants caught in the middle of terrible happenings, was nevertheless deeply in love with the young NVA officer from the north, so much so that she was carrying his child.

The girl’s feelings for Xuan were reciprocated, and they began to run towards each other, just as the first of Charlie Company’s mortars began to rain down from the sky. The last the young NVA officer saw of his pregnant beloved was the sanguine shower that pervaded the spot she had reached, just before a direct shell-hit had virtually eradicated every sign of her and her embryonic child from the face of the Earth.

Xuan’s Story, part 3

(Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, March 1968)

Xuan, still grieving for his lost family and love, was infused with intense fury and hatred and now could not help but relish in obeying his own morbid desire for revenge, as he approached the prone wounded American, abandoned to his fate by his own unit.

Jim tried to protect himself as best he could from the approaching enemy but the furtive crawling advance was too proficient and the 18 year-old infantryman was soon disarmed and in enemy hands. The NVA officer in command then had no consideration whatsoever for the Geneva Convention when he ordered the immobile American, wounded badly in the legs, stripped and staked spreadeagled to the ground.

Just the act of depriving Jim of his uniform was intensely agonising for the young American. However, the petrified 18 year-old, now surrounded by amused VC, rightly perceived that much more horrific suffering was imminent.

Jim’s worst fears materialised when the NVA officer straddled the young American’s naked prone body and produced a large hunting knife. Despite his acute pain and terror at his situation, the 18 year-old could not help but recognise the irony that the very sharp lethal weapon displayed above him seemed to be of U.S. origin, presumably a trophy of war from some other poor and now dead G.I..

Jim was then surprised to hear English spoken well, although this feeling was soon displaced by horror when he appreciated what the NVA officer was saying.

“Well, Yank,” Xuan, a former English language student, announced with clear glee, “I don’t think we have much time before your friends return with reinforcements. I’ll therefore prepare you for your happy reunion. First, I think, I’ll cut these off!” To Jim’s absolute terror, the NVA officer’s long broad knife pointed downwards, towards the 18 year-old’s genitalia.

As Xuan knelt to accomplish the deed, he rejoiced in the frantic pleading screams now emerging from his naked captive’s mouth, a noise which the 22 year-old North Vietnamese knew how he would soon terminate.

Xuan grabbed Jim’s flaccid but substantial cock and brutally pulled it upwards, an action that caused the young American's ball sac to stretch vulnerably. Whilst retaining harsh hold of the doomed penis and ignoring his victim’s vociferously loud entreaties, the NVA officer then started to saw through the exposed base of the 18 year-old’s scrotum.

“No!” screamed Jim several times, as he agonisingly felt his manhood being viciously shorn away. However, his pleas were then ended when the NVA officer stuffed the severed bloody genitalia down his victim’s throat. This action not only quietened the sobbing young American but also began to cause the 18 year-old to choke.

Jim, in his delirium of acute anguish and pain, perhaps fortunately, did not really hear the NVA officer’s next words. “Now, Yank,” Xuan had declared, “now it’s time to gut you!”

U.S. military pathologists could not later work out what precisely had caused Jim’s death, the choking genitalia, the extraction of his intestines or the severance of his head to fill the gaping cavity in the young American’s stomach.

Xuan would later be granted a Vietnamese nickname by his men, for the regularity in which he subsequently repeated what he had perpetrated on Jim. The NVA officer became known as ‘The Dismemberer’.

Moshe’s Story

(West Bank of the River Jordan, February 2001)

Moshe had demanded an early return to duty, despite having attended the recent funeral of his wife and infant child, blown to bits on a bus by a Palestinian suicide bomber. As he did so, the 24 year-old Israeli military conscript was infused with intense fury and hatred and now could not help but relish his work.

Moshe was on patrol in a Palestinian village when, not uncommonly, he and his fellow soldiers were assailed by a barrage of missiles. However, the ammunition attacking them comprised only stones.

Nevertheless, Moshe, previously a strong believer in reconciliation between Jew and Muslim, immediately aimed his rifle at one of his attackers and pulled his trigger. Almost instantly, the resultant bullet penetrated a vulnerable skull and an 11 year-old boy fell dead to the floor.

The boy was just another statistic to add to the hundreds of Palestinian children killed by the Israelis in what are officially termed ‘accidents’, for which no member of the military has ever been prosecuted.

Fouad’s Story

(West Bank of the River Jordan, next day, February 2001)

As he attended his 11 year-old brother’s funeral, Fouad was infused with intense fury and hatred and now could not help but relish his dreams. The 16 year-old dreamt of strapping explosives to his body and becoming a martyr. However, he did not think of dying in Israel. Instead, he wanted to sacrifice himself in the country that he believed was responsible for the very existence of the hated Zionist state.

Fouad dreamed of blowing himself up instead in a crowded Times Square in New York.

Jim’s Story

(Djibouti, Horn of Africa, February 2003)

Don and his son, Jim, who had been named after his father’s deceased best friend, had now established a belated but excellent relationship. The former liked his son’s wife and rejoiced in his baby grandson, Don Junior.

Jim had also taken well to his father’s new bride. However, the young man was now involved in secret exercises with his Marine Corps in Djibouti. The 30 year-old and all of his comrades expected to see real combat in Iraq soon.

Jim, however, was not as gung-ho as many of his Marine colleagues. He instead remembered some of his father’s recent words.

“Bush thinks he’s in the right,” Don had suggested, “just as Johnson and Nixon had done regarding their actions in Vietnam. However, he, like them, has never experienced war and therefore has no real idea what it’s all about. He might actually win in Iraq but victory might be at great cost, both in the short and long terms.”

“Let me tell you, son,” Don had continued, “an anecdote about my own father, your grandpa. One summer, our farm was plagued by hornets. Dad hadn’t really tackled the pests before but he decided that the nuisances had to be eliminated. Having found the nest, he therefore went about destroying it. Unfortunately, his inexperience, plus bad advice from friends, caused him to go about the job badly. Dad not only received a lot of stings but also many hornets escaped. During the next summer, the pests returned, in larger numbers than ever and much more hostile towards humans. They plagued our farm until Dad died, despite his best efforts to eradicate them.”

Jim’s recollection, of his recent conversations with his father, was interrupted by a fellow Marine who shared his tent, currently set up in the Djibouti desert. The young man had borrowed a small book of war poetry given by Don to his son.

“Listen to this by some guy called Wilfred Owen,” Jim’s comrade requested before reciting:-

“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped five-nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!….An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues….

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.”

Jim’s friend then asked what five-nines were, what the Latin meant and who was this Wilfred Owen?

Jim replied that five-nines were poison gas shells, that the Latin was a saying from the ancient Roman writer, Horace, meaning ‘It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country’ and that Wilfred Owen was a Welsh poet. He had been killed in his mid-twenties, whilst serving as a British officer during the 1st World War.

Don Junior’s Story, part 1

(New York, U.S.A., February 2003)

Don and his new wife had treated their daughter-in-law and baby grandson, Don Junior, to a short break in New York. They all thought that the trip would help them to overcome their worries about Jim’s departure to Africa and the Middle East.

Whilst the women went shopping, Don contentedly walked the streets of the great metropolis, with his happily sleeping 2 year-old grandson in a push-chair. The Vietnam Veteran was deeply saddened to see the terrible space where the Twin Towers should have been standing. The melancholy sight actually caused him to do something that he had not done for over thirty years, since just before finding his best friend’s mutilated body. He prayed.

Don prayed to God that his son, and his grandson for that matter, would remain safe and not become involved in the same sort of apocalypse that he himself had once encountered.

Don, now wanting to cheer up, then decided to take his grandson to visit the sights in Times Square.

Don Junior’s Story, part 2

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THE END

of

‘APOCALYPSES’

by Pueros