Slither home my son

Slither home my son

By Ron Kop
Copyright, 2005

Welcome to Southeast Asia, my friend, welcome to the armpit of the world. That’s what I would have said to him had I looked him in the eye. Actually I never got the chance. We picked him and his platoon up in a quick swoop when we landed in the pick-up zone. He was crossing the canal waste deep in shit-brown water, and then he ran across the rice paddy towards the helicopter up to his ankles in mud. He carried his M-16 in his left hand, pressing his free arm against his flack vest, trying to hold down a bandoleer of M-60 ammo and a trio of grenades that bobbed up and down like a bunch of little green apples.

I wish for a lot of things. But right now I wish for a clear head. He was the first man I ever killed. And he wasn’t even the enemy. He was one of ours. Oh hell, it wasn’t intentional; some may even call it an accident. But it was neglect – stupid, asinine negligence on my part, without a doubt.

Maybe it’s easy enough to justify, since the blockhead jumped off the chopper before we had a chance to land. To me he was just a typical FNG, with a tad too much esprit de corps, like he was John Wayne'ing it by riding on the skid. We came in to a cold LZ, no cover fire necessary; just touch down, let the troops off, and zip away. It was a safe and simple mission. But come Spring, his rotting flesh will turn the water lilies especially pretty and fragrant.

Will there be a hearing? Yeah, probably. And what should I tell the hearing officer? This is how I imagined it.

“Look, I’m sorry he died, but he jumped off the helicopter before I had a chance to pull him back in. We were four, maybe six feet off the ground, then he lets out a whoop and jumps off the skid like he’s going to a frat party.”

“Did you inform your pilot of the incident? And if so, what was his response?”

“I radioed for him to pull up, that the LZ was unstable, that there was water below.”

“And did he understand your warning, did he pull away?”

“Yes. I directed the pilot to safer ground.”

“And what happened next?”

“Just like we always do: we let off the remaining troops and flew away to join the other helicopters.”

“Are you saying you didn’t stick around to see if the man was rescued? Didn’t you tell your pilot that a man was in the water?”

“Yes sir. I told the pilot that we just lost a grunt in a crater hole.”

“Did you reach for him, or throw a rope or something in the water? Did you make any attempt to assist this soldier?”

“It’s not like I can jump off the helicopter. My first responsibility is with the crew and the aircraft, so I’ve got to stay put.”

“And what was the pilot's respone at that point? Did he provide assistance – maybe offer to medivac the soldier to a medical facility once he was pulled away from the crater?”

“No sir. I’m not sure on this, but I don’t think the pilot at that point has the authority to hold up the mission. Like I said earlier, we flew away and joined the rest of our company in flight formation. It was my understanding we had orders to pick up more troops.”

“Did you realize the man had drowned?”

“Yes sir. I knew he was gone the minute he disappeared. No one on our helicopter jumped in after him, at least none of his fellow grunts. I don’t know what happened after we left. It was pretty obvious the only way he was gonna get out of that crater was for someone to jump in and fish him out.”

“Would you say that it was your negligence that caused this man his life?”

“Yes sir. But he was an FNG, a fucking new guy. He was . . .”

“Objection: Your Honor he has no authority to comment on the competency of the drowned man’s training?”

“Stand down, counselor.” It was the judge. He was breaking in to make some comments of his own. “Isn’t it a fact this soldier was in country only six days. I’m sure that qualifies him as somewhat inexperienced.”

“That's beside the point, your Honor. How can that have any bearing on the negligence of the door gunner – whose responsibility, I might add, is to insure the safety of the troops until they get off the aircraft.”

“Exactly. Listen to me councilor, the soldier was on the ground when he lost his life – okay, he drowned. How can you hold anyone on the helicopter responsible? Vietnam is a dangerous place, if you haven't noticed, and I don’t see how you can hold anyone accountable for either his lack of training or his displaced enthusiasm.”

“But your Honor, what about the events that led up to this soldier’s drowning?”

“We can't predict the future, counselor, or anticipate what may or not happen next at every instance? Yes, I’m sorry this man lost his life, but your point of negligence can extend only so far as to culpability and fault. Certainly, I can assign a small amount of blame to the gunner, and a small amount of blame to the pilot as well. We can also blame his company commander for putting him on that helicopter, and we can also blame the Army for bringing him to this horrible place. So where does the blame end, counselor? And how much blame should we assign to the man who drowned?”

“But your Honor . . ..”

“You're out of order, counselor. I declare this case dismissed.”

And so it was. Case closed. It was all over except the thinking about it, like it was a yoke around my neck from now on until forever.

Some kid’s mom will get a visit from an Army officer wearing dress blues. He’ll knock on the poor woman's door. She’ll open it. And she’ll piss her pants.

“I'm sorry to inform you, mam, but your son is missing in action. His remains haven't been recovered yet, though we expect to recover them soon. Here’s a copy of the military inquest – it’s all in there – how it happened. In a day or two you will receive the remainder of his belongings and given some papers to sign. Again, I’m very sorry, mam. Good day.”

It was an old bomb crater, probably made by a B-52 passing over as it dropped a five-thousand pounder. The earth was soft and it yielded like cake batter, the edges parting from the center of the explosion, opening a hole fifty yards wide and thirty feet deep. Black mud, green plants and trees get blown to bits, microscopic pieces raining back into the jungle to be absorbed into the eco system – like a gentle rain of fertilizer. Water will quickly rush into the hole, filling up in a matter of hours. In time the soupy mix will sprout a new crop of waterborne plants; amphibians and other life forms will flourish. The surface of the crater – the surface of the water – will soon become populated with life as it blends in with the surrounding landscape.

All I could see were reeds and lily pads. It looked solid enough for a helicopter to land on. Then suddenly I noticed the movement as we got closer – the ripples on the surface – tiny waves made by the chopper blades. I’d seen it before. And our young PFC was waiting there, anxiously standing on the skid, ready to jump. And then off he went. He got sucked in without so much as a splash. The only thing that remained was his helmet, floating, held up by the moss. The reeds and other plants parted for a moment as his form slid into the dark pool, creating a deep circle where he had entered. Then it all rolled over the hole as if nothing unusual had happened at all. I looked back to see his helmet turn and slide out of sight.

Our young private will pull and push at the straps holding his pack to his torso. He will wriggle and squirm, and yank and tear. He will sink deeper, and then panic as he wrestles with the invisible killer. The weight of his belt and pack, grenades, and bandoleers of ammo will pull him to the bottom like an anchor, turning him face-up as the mosses and reeds wrap around his limbs. Stirred mud will cover his eyes, and his lungs will fill with gulps of slimy-green biological shit. He will jerk momentarily as his final gasp of energy is transferred to his new surroundings. And in time osmosis will transform his bulk to jelly, and eventually his remaining body fluids will mix with the brackish water.

The poor bastard. Come Spring his rotting and worm-infested flesh will turn the water lilies especially pretty and fragrant. He will never go home again except to be carried out by the creatures of the crater. So slither home my son, if you ever get the chance.

Welcome to Southeast Asia, my friend, welcome to the armpit of the world. That’s what I would have said to him had I looked him in the eye; yeah, that’s what I would have said. For me it was all over except the thinking about it.