Remembering the Past While Witnessing the Present

                                                        "Someone had blundered. 

                                                        Theirs not to make reply,

                                                        Theirs not to reason why,                 

                                                         Theirs but to do and die."

                                                            Alfred Lord Tennyson                                                                        

Dedicated to those who did not make it home, and to those who made it home forever changed..             

Chicano voices speak of war

                                                                           Fire Mission

     Danny Rios’ ears rang from the incessant roar of the howitzers. The smell of sulfur filled his nose. He wiped the dust from his face and watched Lt. Villareal search the ammo dump for one more HE round—nothing.

     From the mountaintop, the artillerymen listened to the embattled infantrymen fighting in the valley below. Someone pointed to the sky. Everyone looked up. There they were, like termites crawling along a blue ceiling. The ground rumbled. Danny grabbed a sandbag to steady himself. The B-52s rocked the entire valley.

                                                                              

A Moment of Silence

     The sun had begun its descent as the first chopper rose from the valley floor. Danny walked to the mountain’s edge to watch. It landed on a grassy knoll, about 75 meters downhill, a vast mountain range in the background.

     Two door gunners jumped from behind their M-60s and grabbed the body of an American infantryman. They stepped carefully from the chopper to avoid the powerful blades. They placed the body on the grass, returned to the chopper and lifted another body, carried it, and placed it beside the first. After the helicopter lifted and dipped back down to the valley floor, six dead Americans lay side by side.

     The next chopper was but minutes behind the first. The door gunners rushed, unloading one body at a time. After the chopper’s skids lifted above the earth, twelve bodies lay on the green knoll. Danny stood motionless, his foot resting on a sandbag wall. A couple of other artillerymen walked away.

     The sky darkened and a stream of choppers continued rising from below, all depositing their loads. Danny didn’t know how many choppers were involved in the grisly delivery. After a while, they all looked the same.

     The door gunners moved fast, fighting the darkness. They no longer stacked the bodies side by side. Instead, as each helicopter hovered, the door gunners, balancing in the doorway, shoved the bodies out onto the growing pile. Danny could barely see as the last chopper dropped its cargo.

     He listened as the plopping sounds of the blades faded and died. The mound of flesh looked like a messy pyramid. Darkness was nearly complete, and most of the artilleryman had returned to their gun sections.

     The mountains lay silent and stars shone overhead. Danny turned to a soldier who stood next to him, opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Both strained to see the corpses, but night had swallowed them. The soldier walked away. Danny stood alone, wondering about his mother and father and how they were. He hadn’t written them in a long time and felt guilty.

     He turned and walked back to the battery area. He peered into the night, and moved towards the whispering voices, faces he couldn’t see. Every now and then, a cigarette’s orange glow lighted a man’s lips and nose.

     Danny walked to his hootch, where three friends sat talking. The blast of a mortar echoed in the distance, and then came the crack of a rifle, one single shot, and the jungle fell silent.

    From Shifting Loyalties, Daniel Cano, Arte Publico Press, 1995