Guatemala

I was young,
Military Police with clean new boots
And a chest full of pride,
Still thinking service was about salutes,
Not shadows on the other side.

They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.”
Jungle duty, heat and aid.
We packed like boys chasing purpose,
Not knowing what price would be paid.

The border near El Salvador—
Soldiers, hesitant tourists, turned.
A mission blurred into ambush light,
And suddenly, everything burned.

The first shot cracked like thunder,
Then chaos danced through every tree.
My rifle rose before I could think,
Like it already knew what I’d need to be.

And there he was.

Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe.
A man, breathing, crouched in the brush—
Too real, too human, too close.

No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath.
And I saw him—God, I saw him—
His eyes locked with mine
In that final second between life and death.

His collar had red-threaded logos,
Symbols I’d never seen before.
But they’re seared in me now,
Just like the way he hit the jungle floor.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger—
Only the sound,
And how silence came after,
Like the jungle held its breath all around.

I stared at his body like it might move,
Like maybe I’d made some mistake.
But war doesn’t offer rewinds
Or give back the things it takes.

Later, the others spoke in code:
Rules of engagement, mission clear.
But all I could see were his eyes,
Still there in my mind, year after year.

They never teach you
How a single second can break a man—
How you carry a stranger’s final breath
Long after your tour ends and the years expand.

I went there thinking I’d find meaning,
Some noble fire in uniform thread.
But in Guatemala, I met a man—
And left with part of myself dead.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.