The Marine

I didn’t get to talk to him myself. I was in a hospital bed across the ward from him. I was Army, he was a Marine. It really didn’t matter what branch of service we were in, we were all wounded brothers from that Frat-house called Vietnam. The marine, I’ll call him Joe, was strapped to a big wheel that had to be turned every twenty minutes. He was paralyzed from the neck down. The guy in the hospital bed beside of me was a Seabee, who had been shot in the head, and he told me the Marine’s story as follows:

Joe, the Marine’s unit was charging up a hill and taking heavy fire from the Viet Cong position on the high ground. Joe and his two buddies heard the mortars raining down, and jumped into a foxhole for cover. What they didn’t know was that the foxhole had been dug by the Viet Cong, so that they could zero in on that co-ordinance, when and if, U.S. Marines took cover in it. Therefore, when Joe and his buddies jumped in the foxhole, the mortar round followed them right in. Joe’s two comrades were killed instantly, and we know what happened to Joe.

Everyone of those Marines, Sailors, Airmen and Soldiers had a story to tell. I was in no position to gather their stories, and was too self-concerned to think of them. I wish I had. Over the ten year’s of United States involvement in Vietnam, more than fifty-eight thousand Americans lost their lives. Other U. S. allies’ lives were lost in that little undeclared war. Over a million Vietnamese were killed. Each of those human beings had a story to tell. War is hell… when will we learn?