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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Death / Heartbreak / Loss
- Published: 06/22/2011
Just Before Morning
Born 1958, M, from Vancouver, WA, United StatesJust Before Morning
At twenty-five years old, John looked forty: dark hair infused with gray, and paintbrush swaths of white at his temples. Deep-set eyes, dark and haunted, watched everything, but never met another’s gaze directly. He was my height, but compact, muscular; every movement demonstrated strength, focus, and purpose.
John only worked the night shift. He had no official job title at the Pizza Place, but he did every job, from mucking out the bathrooms after closing, to mixing the pizza dough and rolling the skins. He lived in an apartment six blocks from the Pizza Place, and he walked to work each afternoon. He had a roommate that came in occasionally for dinner. He sat in a corner where the light struggled. John would take his break and sit with him for a few minutes, smoking several cigarettes in the process.
“His name is Rick,” John told me. “We were in the same unit in ‘Nam.” John had a glass of beer and two cigarettes – one tipped into the ashtray, another between the first and second fingers of his right hand. We had just closed the restaurant, finished cleaning the kitchen and the dining room, and were having a beer before cleaning the toilets. The rest of the night crew had gone home.
“Rick falls asleep on the couch sometimes, when he is watching television. I have this stick I keep in the hall when that happens. It’s an old broom handle. You poke him with it to wake him up. You don’t want to be standing close when he wakes up.” A ghost of a smile crossed John’s lips. “Comes up fighting, like he was still in ‘Nam.”
At nineteen I still had acne, refused to cut my hair, and was looking forward to the end of summer and leaving home to go to college. My stepfather also looked forward to my leaving for college, occasionally saluting me by raising his glass of bourbon, which he always had close at hand. “Don’t suppose you’re going to cut your hair before you go?” He would ask. “Or should I get you a bra and some skirts to take with you?” It was nineteen seventy-seven, and in my claustrophobic world working, partying, and staying as far from my alcoholic stepfather as possible, Viet Nam was intangible. I could not breath its air or feel its heat. The sights and sounds of the place were only what I remembered from watching television.
I spent most of my childhood watching news reports on Viet Nam, and watching coverage of the protests that made my stepfather swear at the television set. He even threw one of his glasses of bourbon through a window once, after watching film footage of a flag being burned. He glared at me, rage burning from inside his eyes, and then he went to get another drink. No doubt I was the symbol for him of what was going wrong in the world.
“We did one tour,” he said, blowing smoke out as he spoke. His eyes held steady on a place just above my left shoulder. “We were both assigned to a forward base, Rick and me.” He waved his hand, his arm suddenly energized, cigarette smoke cutting twists in the air above his head. “Holes in the ground surrounded by sandbags; that was the forward base. We stayed in our holes until it was time to go out on ambush. The whole place was surrounded by this wall of barbed wire.”
He put the cigarette in his hand down next to the cigarette in the ashtray, drank deeply from his beer, finishing it in one drink. He got up and headed for the serving counter. Leaning over, he refilled his beer, and then came back to the table. “I still remember the day my induction notice came in the mail. I walked into the kitchen, and there was my mom, staring at this official piece of paper on the kitchen counter and crying. She wasn’t making any noise, but her shoulders were bouncing up and down.”
He looked at his cigarettes, scratched at his hair, put both the cigarettes out. I was pushing away from the table, getting ready to go mop out the girls toilets, when John rubbed his hands across his face. Then he sighed, like he had just made a decision that he did not like, but was committed to.
“I though that was the worst,” he said. “Mom crying, not making any noise, just sobbing and dripping tears on the notice.” He shook his head. “But that wasn’t the worst.” He rubbed his face again. “Just before morning,” he began. “I was going off guard duty and Rick was coming on. We saw movement just outside of the perimeter. Some gooks had come up and began attacking our perimeter. I heard firing all over the camp, so I opened up on the gooks in front of us, thinking we were under attack. They shot back, but just as fast they turned and ran; all but one. He kept coming, trying like to get through the wire. I just kept firing and firing. Rick watched as that gook kept working at the wire, pulling and tearing at it, trying to get through. It didn’t seem to matter I was shooting at him. I couldn’t believe he was trying so hard to get through. It was like nothing would stop him from getting at us, they hated us so much. Finally, my clip went empty. I was reaching for another one when Rick told me to knock it off. It the little gook got any closer we’d open up on him again.
“When the sun came up we went out to have a look. That gook was so tangled up in the wire that he would have never got out on his own.” John took a long drag on his cigarette, drank half his beer, then did something he had never done before, nor did afterward: he look me in the eye, said: “But it didn’t matter, because I had cut the gook in half with my fire, right below his ribcage. And even though he was in two pieces, he was still all in one place, all tangled up in the wire. His eyes were still open, looking at me no matter where I stood. Guys started taking pictures, but I just…”
John looked away. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and drew deeply from it. We sat in silence for several loud heartbeats, and then got up to finish our closing duties. Outside, in the parking lot, a police cruiser drove slowly by, checking.
Just Before Morning(William Cline)
Just Before Morning
At twenty-five years old, John looked forty: dark hair infused with gray, and paintbrush swaths of white at his temples. Deep-set eyes, dark and haunted, watched everything, but never met another’s gaze directly. He was my height, but compact, muscular; every movement demonstrated strength, focus, and purpose.
John only worked the night shift. He had no official job title at the Pizza Place, but he did every job, from mucking out the bathrooms after closing, to mixing the pizza dough and rolling the skins. He lived in an apartment six blocks from the Pizza Place, and he walked to work each afternoon. He had a roommate that came in occasionally for dinner. He sat in a corner where the light struggled. John would take his break and sit with him for a few minutes, smoking several cigarettes in the process.
“His name is Rick,” John told me. “We were in the same unit in ‘Nam.” John had a glass of beer and two cigarettes – one tipped into the ashtray, another between the first and second fingers of his right hand. We had just closed the restaurant, finished cleaning the kitchen and the dining room, and were having a beer before cleaning the toilets. The rest of the night crew had gone home.
“Rick falls asleep on the couch sometimes, when he is watching television. I have this stick I keep in the hall when that happens. It’s an old broom handle. You poke him with it to wake him up. You don’t want to be standing close when he wakes up.” A ghost of a smile crossed John’s lips. “Comes up fighting, like he was still in ‘Nam.”
At nineteen I still had acne, refused to cut my hair, and was looking forward to the end of summer and leaving home to go to college. My stepfather also looked forward to my leaving for college, occasionally saluting me by raising his glass of bourbon, which he always had close at hand. “Don’t suppose you’re going to cut your hair before you go?” He would ask. “Or should I get you a bra and some skirts to take with you?” It was nineteen seventy-seven, and in my claustrophobic world working, partying, and staying as far from my alcoholic stepfather as possible, Viet Nam was intangible. I could not breath its air or feel its heat. The sights and sounds of the place were only what I remembered from watching television.
I spent most of my childhood watching news reports on Viet Nam, and watching coverage of the protests that made my stepfather swear at the television set. He even threw one of his glasses of bourbon through a window once, after watching film footage of a flag being burned. He glared at me, rage burning from inside his eyes, and then he went to get another drink. No doubt I was the symbol for him of what was going wrong in the world.
“We did one tour,” he said, blowing smoke out as he spoke. His eyes held steady on a place just above my left shoulder. “We were both assigned to a forward base, Rick and me.” He waved his hand, his arm suddenly energized, cigarette smoke cutting twists in the air above his head. “Holes in the ground surrounded by sandbags; that was the forward base. We stayed in our holes until it was time to go out on ambush. The whole place was surrounded by this wall of barbed wire.”
He put the cigarette in his hand down next to the cigarette in the ashtray, drank deeply from his beer, finishing it in one drink. He got up and headed for the serving counter. Leaning over, he refilled his beer, and then came back to the table. “I still remember the day my induction notice came in the mail. I walked into the kitchen, and there was my mom, staring at this official piece of paper on the kitchen counter and crying. She wasn’t making any noise, but her shoulders were bouncing up and down.”
He looked at his cigarettes, scratched at his hair, put both the cigarettes out. I was pushing away from the table, getting ready to go mop out the girls toilets, when John rubbed his hands across his face. Then he sighed, like he had just made a decision that he did not like, but was committed to.
“I though that was the worst,” he said. “Mom crying, not making any noise, just sobbing and dripping tears on the notice.” He shook his head. “But that wasn’t the worst.” He rubbed his face again. “Just before morning,” he began. “I was going off guard duty and Rick was coming on. We saw movement just outside of the perimeter. Some gooks had come up and began attacking our perimeter. I heard firing all over the camp, so I opened up on the gooks in front of us, thinking we were under attack. They shot back, but just as fast they turned and ran; all but one. He kept coming, trying like to get through the wire. I just kept firing and firing. Rick watched as that gook kept working at the wire, pulling and tearing at it, trying to get through. It didn’t seem to matter I was shooting at him. I couldn’t believe he was trying so hard to get through. It was like nothing would stop him from getting at us, they hated us so much. Finally, my clip went empty. I was reaching for another one when Rick told me to knock it off. It the little gook got any closer we’d open up on him again.
“When the sun came up we went out to have a look. That gook was so tangled up in the wire that he would have never got out on his own.” John took a long drag on his cigarette, drank half his beer, then did something he had never done before, nor did afterward: he look me in the eye, said: “But it didn’t matter, because I had cut the gook in half with my fire, right below his ribcage. And even though he was in two pieces, he was still all in one place, all tangled up in the wire. His eyes were still open, looking at me no matter where I stood. Guys started taking pictures, but I just…”
John looked away. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and drew deeply from it. We sat in silence for several loud heartbeats, and then got up to finish our closing duties. Outside, in the parking lot, a police cruiser drove slowly by, checking.
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Kevin Hughes
03/03/2019War is hell. And snapshots like these don't go away when the Service Member comes home. You can die in training, that isn't rare. You can die with people shooting at you- and sometimes...just being on alert all the time because you might be shot at can do you in.
I just talked with a Combat Medic who never once saw Combat. But in 67-68 - he was assigned to fly bodies home from Vietnam. The Medics were assigned to make sure the bodies were "packed right" - and in case the loading and unloading crews broke down. Some day, there will be no war. And most Warriors want that day to happen.
Smiles, Kevin
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