I always thought I'd forget coming in for the draft of all us middle class guys that couldn't afford escaping to college. I must have been off the wall and stabbing the dark that day, because I was even farther off base with that assumption. I never forgot that day once, probably due to the fact it changed the rest of my life.

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"Listen, Jack." My father brought me into the basement and smiled at me. "Your Grandfather was a war hero. He got a medal of honor from the force he served in." He had a little open box in his hands. Inside was an Air Force Medal of Honor: a ribbon with the words "Valor" above the star, which was kind of crooked.

"You don't have to worry 'bout the war, Son. You won't die at war. No Londel dies at war."

"Grandfather died at war."

"His spirit lives on after the war." If my father had ever spewed more bull shit out of his mouth I don't remember when it was. "I have faith in you, Jack Londel." He smiled again, as if he would be happy for me to come home in a box.

"Alright, dad." I went back upstairs to get what little I had to take.

And then I went to train with the other men. They cut off our hair, dehumanized us, and made us clones. They pushed me, dragged me, yelled at my face, and threw me down again.

Then they put a gun in my hands and did it all over again before sending me over there with everyone else.

"Lamar... Vietnam." The assignments. The man's voice speaking the word 'Vietnam'. "LeVey... Vietnam." The motionless bodies. He said it with a long 'a', I think. Like the southerners do, I'll bet. "Linder... Vietnam... Lire... Vietnam." The silence. It was killing us all and we hadn't even gone to war, yet. "Londel..." The waiting. I already knew what it was without hearing it. "Vietnam..." The fear. Vietnam

                                 *                                   *                                *

I was hunkered down with the rest of my unit, not wanting to really be there, just like they didn't. It must have been one of the requirements for the Vietnam soldiers that I was with. You weren't supposed to like it, and you almost wished you were dead. I didn't remember checking that box when I had to make a list of things I liked and didn't like, just like they do in the elementary schools.

So I pulled my helmet down again and grit my teeth. I held my gun and held my breath. It was all running through my mind. The past, the present, and how I was supposed to die. Well, I wasn't sure how I was going to die. But I would have bet anything that it was going to be there.

No Londel dies at war... Vietnam... I'll marry you when you come back... I have faith in you, Jack... Stay Safe... I love you...Vietnam...

I couldn't stay here, and God knew that. We all knew that. But those guys that sent us here in the first place? Mr. President Johnson? He didn't know that. He was supposed to know that, but I bet you he didn't. He had guys that were supposed to know stuff like that, and they were supposed to tell him about stuff like that, but I bet they never got around to it. And if they did? I bet it was pure lie, just like the rest of them guys in that big white house up on the hill.

I heard a noise and raised the gun like everyone else with me, my eyes wide and slightly wet. It's hard to shoot straight with teary eyes, I reminded myself repeatedly. So I tried to stop crying--not that I was, really--and I tried to stop thinking about war. I'll tell you that second one was hard when you're right in the middle of it. The stopping the crying was easier. Not that I'd tell anyone I was even crying in the first place.

"Jackie...?" Lionel had come to call me Jackie, and I really couldn't explain why. "You hear that, bro?" I nodded and he looked around. He looked like me: Afraid. "Jesus Chri--"

I didn't hear him. I hit the dirt. There were already bullets raining over my head. I just shot back and stayed there. I didn't care what I was hitting. I just hopped I wasn't hitting my guys. I just hoped and prayed that I wasn't.

I ran out the clip in my gun and didn't move. I didn't pull my finger off the trigger. I couldn't. I think that gun kept trying to fire air. If it wasn't, I couldn't tell. All I could hear were those bullets in my ears. I just wanted to keep shooting to hear something, but I couldn't do that either. The lack of bullets made it impossible. I hope I killed one of those bastards. It would have made death a lot easier.

Not that I had died. But when it started raining there in the middle of the Vietnam Jungles, I realized someone else did. Someone that called me Jackie. The water washed the blood off his dark face as he lay on the ground and made the blood on his uniform start to slowly fade.

Now if father would have known that I held a black man while he was dying, Father would have killed me. He would have made sure I would die at war. He would make sure that when I came back he'd never speak to me again. But I took my chances. Lionel was my best friend.

Buckle for your dust, Boot... Don't go a FUBAR on us, now. We'll get you to Freedom Bird in no time, just kill the Goddam Gooks, Boot. Just kill the goddam sons of bitches. God I hated that voice once.

"John Wayne!" And God did I love it. The English sounded so nice and familiar. But I couldn't answer him. I just lay there. "Jack...." It stopped for a minute. "Londel!" He placed his hand on top of my head and turned my stare away from Lionel. "You trying to get Fucked, bud? That line of VC could have just ruined your wake-up." He pulled me away from him.

My wake-up...

                                 *                                   *                                *

I got Freedom Bird safely after my turn. I found all the new boots. Boy did they look scared. I guess I can't say I looked any better. I was the living wasted.

But I put my bag over my shoulder and started walking. People were staring. And coming home was nice until they spit in my face. I honestly wanted to go back, now. Fighting with those men and covering them. It was all I knew...

"Jack?" Father. "Well, Jack Londel. I told you you'd come back."

I didn't say anything.

"How was war?"

I still didn't talk. I kept walking. I wouldn't talk about that for another year and a half, maybe two. I couldn't. It hurt too much.

I now knew death and what it took to have life. And because of that I fell into a deep silence. I stayed up late at night. I slept with the lights on like I did when I was a little kid afraid of the closet. I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of loud noises. I kept hearing the helicopters and the gunfire. I kept seeing the burning forests in front of us as we called in those air strikes.

I kept telling myself I was the same as I was five years ago... Boy was I wrong.