First Experiences

Newly arrived in country and unassigned,

I languished lost and alone, acclimatizing,

at some nameless firebase north of Danang.

Brown bar proudly displayed on my collar,

I was anxious to assume command

but secretly apprehensive about how I would perform

when “the shit hit the fan.”

My first experience of war was not auspicious.

As mortar rounds “walked-in” upon us,

like giant steps of death and destruction,

I was mesmerized both by excitement and fear.

Frozen in place, gauging the next footfall,

I was pushed, rather unceremoniously,

into a sandbagged bunker,

more to clear the escape route

than from a concern for my well-being.

Overwhelmed by fear, all that I had learned forgotten,

I burrowed, wormlike, into the muddy bottom,

seeking sanctuary, cursing my humanity

and my inability to disappear

into the earthen mother’s womb,

like the clay-man agents of Ming the Merciless.

After the all clear, with faculties restored,

I reemerged, covered in mud.

Humiliated and embarrassed,

I looked to the others expecting criticism.

Faces were without expression, however,

as though complacent to all that had transpired.

Relieved by this moratorium of indifference,

I still needed to prove my courage

but probably only to myself.

The lessons of war began here

as fear is the best teacher.

And yet, for a while at least,

remnants of the myth still lingered.

With the Marine Corps Hymn

in the background of my mind,

I persevered, and performed well,

like Sergeant Striker charging valiantly up Suribachi,

dying quickly, quietly, gently,

and without pain or regret.

In truth, however, most linger,

scream for their mothers like children,

first imploring god to let their lives continue,

then begging for death to end their suffering.

Final glances exchanged,

eyes burned deeply into my soul.

Faces of the soon to be dead,

I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

copyright © Camillo Bica

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