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The End of War
Plato once said only the dead have seen the end of war. Funny thing is, he was pretty right.
You are born. You grow up. You get in fights. You date girls. You turn eighteen. You enlist.
You go to war.
That was the life you had in those years. You see all the evil in the enemy’s eyes and wish to give them what they deserve, or perhaps you do it as a family tradition. Either way, you end up knee deep in mud, famine and death. College? No time for that. The Uncle Sam needs YOU.
San Diego, Parris Island, it didn’t matter, y’all get sent to the same hell. Or Vietnam, as they name it. The tour lasted six months, but most guys ended up serving 13, if they were not killed first, of course. Sailors on the boats were the safest. Pilots did not have it easy, being shot down nearly daily deep into hostile territory. Army guys had it tough, having to be there for one entire year. And then there’s you, a young infantry Marine. Most of your buddies won’t make it past three months, so don’t get too attached to them.
You get out of the bus, you step on the yellow footprints and stand there, being shouted at by your new best friend: your drill instructor. There you’d spend the next twelve weeks of your life, transitioning from an innocent moonshine-drinking teenager to a full metal jacket killing machine. You learn to shoot, you learn to vault, you learn to hide, and most important of it all: you learn to run.
Twelve weeks go by like twelve minutes. One last good-bye to your parents and your sweetheart, who will surely cheat on you with that Jody of hers while you’re gone, if you ever come back. You get on the boat. You make it to Nam and get assigned to your squad. Then it begins.
What comes next can only be understood by those who have seen it.
Your first buddy gets shot. He’s barely older than you, still not being able to grow a mustache. He tells you to give his love to his mom. You tell him he’s gonna make it, but deep inside you know that wound pierced through his guts like a hot knife on butter. Medivac comes, the paramedics get him on the helicopter. It is too late. He’s gone now. But you’re still there. You are still there and you will be for the next six months.
Then you hear a buzz in the air. Jets. Are they friendly? That does not matter. Uncle Sam could not care less about danger close. Napalm burns the forest just 10 meters from you, along with the hundreds of Vietnamese souls hidden in the bushes. You hear them scream, you hear them suffer. You know they’re the enemy, but you also know there’s no need to speak Vietnamese to understand their screams. You stand there as you watch a young Vietnamese private, practically the same age as you, with his scorched skin coming of from his bones like the meat comes off from a well done pork rib. You just stand there thinking that could be you. You just stand there thinking he also went to school, got into fights and dated girls. You are blown away. Then you hear it. A scream coming from somewhere in the woods. You turn around and see the hatred in the enemy’s eyes as he rushes towards you with a bayonet on his rifle. You’ve never been so close to the enemy and you are paralyzed. Everything happens so fast and so slowly at the same time. Then you hear a shot. Blood spills from the Vietnamese soldier’s chest. He falls to the ground and you just stand there watching. As his body hits the ground, your sergeant appears standing behind him. He does not say a thing, neither do you. He just leaves, knowing you rookie would not make it through the day. You don’t mind him, for you’re still looking at the dying soldier. You step up closer to him. You kneel down, bullets flying over your head. Suddenly everything stops. At least for you. The bombing, the shooting, the screaming. It all disappears as you lean towards your dying enemy. You see him take a picture of his son in his hands. He points at you.
Then you realize...
...the war is finally over, for him only.
