|
Friendships and Departures
I’m standing alone in the aromatic darkness of Trang-Sup, gazing off to
where Nui Ba Den looms dimly against the starry sky. The muted noises of
the camp go on behind me.
And, as always, the almost subliminal rumbling of continual bombardments
underlies the background of camp sounds. Some guys in the little club,
backed by a pretty good guitar player, are singing their own version of the
Ballad of the Green Berets. Barry Sadler never thought up those words.
Something rustles faintly off to one side near the sandbags. I suddenly
remember that I’m standing alone in the dark, and that I hate snakes, although I don't
think (hopefully) that a snake would be making any noise. I decide it’s
probably a foraging rat and briefly wonder where Tu Do is. Tu Do is one
of the camp mascots, a medium size, nondescript black and white
mutt that dearly loves to chase and kill rats. You only have to point
one out to her and she’s off after it like a shot.
Why am I out here by myself, communing with the spirit of the Black
Virgin that dwells inside Nui Ba Den? It's because my friend Larry shipped out today.
There’s not even the satisfaction of knowing that he’s returning safely
home, since he didn’t go home. He just moved on to another A Team camp.
Somebody noted that the last three camps Larry had been on were overrun
shortly after he departed. Now, there’s a pleasant thought to contemplate.
[Fortunately, Trang-Sup broke that string of bad luck; its walls
remained intact and unbreached during its American occupation. Finally, the Air Force detachment was
deactivated in the spring of '68, and then the Special Forces A Team left
sometime later.
Det. 7 and A-301 ceased to exist. I had been gone for nearly a year when the American presence on Trang-Sup
began to end. I had gone
to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. Gone, but not forgotten. I had the signal honor of
being in charge of the crew that was sent to retrieve the Air Force
electronic equipment from Trang-Sup after Detachment 7 was deactivated.
Obviously, I had not moved far enough away. When my old hooch mate
introduced me to the Air Force Commander, the CO said, "Ah, the
notorious Sergeant Woodfork!" as he was shaking my hand. I decided not
to ask what he meant.]
“Don’t form close attachments,” they said; it’s too painful should a
friend be killed. True enough, perhaps, but Larry is very much alive, just gone
somewhere else in Vietnam. Anyway, does anybody ever really fully
observe that supposed taboo? In later years, after listening to ‘Nam
vets talk about their friends and experiences, I definitely doubt it.
I doubt it even while I’m still in Vietnam. There's the indelible memory
of some of the Special Forces guys on Trang-Sup weeping in anger and
frustration while they listen to the radio as another A Team camp fights
to keep from
being overrun. Most of them had served with the people in that camp at
one time or another. These seasoned troops were not shedding tears for
casual acquaintances. They identified closely with those men.
As for me, I would have thought that I had long ago become inured to the
departure, if not the death, of friends. After all, I had spent years on
remote radar sites, where people came and went almost constantly. Most
Air Force people don’t go PCS in units; we move about singly,
particularly among small radar squadrons like the ones I was always part
of. I certainly should have been used to losing friends to redeployment.
I stand there gazing into the humid night, wondering if there's really something
extra
special about friendships formed in a war zone. In spite of the caveats
against it, do we become closer, form a special bond, because of the
circumstances of our shared existence in constant danger? That danger is always
there, regardless of where we happen to be, or what we are doing. I
wonder…does it hurt as much, does the pain last as long, if a friend is
killed away from your sight and hearing?
Hell, I’m no philosopher; I don’t know. So I give it up, leaving Nui Ba Den to the
perennially surrounded Americans in the radio relay station on its summit
and the VC infesting its slopes. I go in to join the singing in the club: “Jesus was a
lifeguard at the Third Army pool, Jesus was a lifeguard at the Third
Army pool, Jesus was a lifeguard at the Third Army pool – Jesus saves,
Jesus saves, Jesus saves.”
© Thurman P. Woodfork 3/15/2007
  Awarded 19 March 2007 Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
View My Guestbook
Background Sequence by Final Fantasy |
