Like Killing Rats

I Corps, Republic of South Vietnam, bloody 1968Live the harrowing highs and traumatic lows of one marine youth who finds his seven-month &quote;in country&quote; war-weary self carrying a field radio burden for a suspect glory-minded forward observer artillery officer who'd yet to learn the undeclared war was a government sham, a political ruse that would one tragic day force the FO team's &quote;command structured&quote; relationship to a &quote;who's responsible&quote; head over a short round of friendly artillery, which put their field commander permanently out of action. The resolve-testing war with the North Vietnamese Army, the near immobilizing, ever-sweltering jungle mountains and sandy flatlands, the thought-friendly villages, the two of our people executed, the four enemy prisoners executed in turn, as well as President Johnson's bombing halts and retaking enemy positions are the nerve-pickling building blocks shackled themselves together like a confrontation-packed novel about combat-weary vets not taught to run from a political fight either. Experience the combative days, literally sweat the chancy nights, devour the popular songs . . . when lucky enough to hear such haunting &quote;sounds&quote; as &quote;Get Off My Cloud&quote; by the Rolling Stones. For one can't simply &quote;throw their rifle down and quit!&quote; The corps will toss said shameless in the brig for untold years; though a panicked one can steal away into the masking jungle and surrender, yet hard-core enemy will put a bullet through a deserter's enlisted head like a pesky bunker rat, unless one's a commissioned officer, then the VC &quote;might&quote; keep said alive as a &quote;peace&quote;-bargaining chip. One may understand the historic reason why many the combat marine during such oh-so-questioning times likened themselves to the politically used, if not correct, title of Uncle Sam's misguided children-know what it's truly like to stalk and be stalked, kill or be killed, fear and be feared.