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Every day, even the nonreligious boys knelt and bowed, so as to pray, “Oh dear God,” they’d say, “Let me be the predator and not the prey!” April came, and for months we sang A sweet song about running away Not ‘cause we were afraid, We just didn’t want to stay We wanted to escape-- To take the A-train to the planes at Da Nang And go home. So we heeded the word And we ran through the jungle. Who could have ever guessed that a hamburger could be so unappetizing? Here’s the truth: that ain’t ketchup, and this ain’t child’s play. No Red-Riders or Daisies These toys are real and so is this pain. If you’re lucky, you can be saved If you’re lucky, it might just rain If you’re lucky, they’ll cancel the game If you’re lucky, you’ve got today. And what we imagined when we were tots About the war our fathers fought Was all fun ‘til we were caught In the A Shau Valley with jungle rot Starving half to death for a C-ration box, Brothers dying left and right—even if we could, we wouldn’t watch We had our sights lined up to fire shots Leaving behind us all our guts No time for stomachs tied up in knots No tears, no fear, we’re here to give ‘em hell And that’s our job So that’s what we’ll do. Search. Destroy. No sleep for days, a **** sure bet That sick feeling you’ll need to use your bayonet ‘cause some poor ******** so unfortunate To stumble upon you and take what he gets Surprise, surprise: no peace this year for beloved Tet “Happy New Year!” are they ready? Are they set? For two years, their leader’s dead And the VC’s still such a threat Both sides take turns mowing down men they’ve never met They want and we want each other to quit, That’s what we all expect But it still hasn’t happened yet. It’s been five-plus years and we’re still here Taking baby-faced rookies hardly old enough to drink a beer Turning them into hardened men through blood, sweat, and tears Black or white, straight or queer We’re all equal on the battlefields We don’t come cheap, but we come at a steal Valuable and worthless at the same time It all depends who you ask, the folks at home or the men on the lines And everyone in between has a different answer too Olive-Drab boys filling combat boots A couple thousand bucks for already-dying shoes To ****** the roots of a foreign land where none of us belong. Why can’t we leave ‘em alone? No time to ask questions, just follow your orders: **** and survive, Do your damnedest not to die, Then you can get on the plane and fly. Fly on home, under one condition: Survive the brimstone and ****** weather the storm and see the calm. Been here 3 years myself, and I heard stories-- Got letters from buddies who made it safe to Uncle Sam “They hate us back here. Why?” I ain’t quite sure, man! Life sure gets different real fast when you’re face-to-face with an enemy And in a split second, without a thought, you snap his arm and stab his throat Then lie him down, walk away, and that very same day, go write your girl back home a love-note. Sure, it’s gotta be nuts to them folks back home, staring into the deep and empty eyes of men who killed and died Out in those jungles where their country’s pride learned to hide like a silhouette when you **** the light. It’s gotta be nuts trying to adjust to waking up in a comfy bed without seein’ someone dyin’— The paranoia of stepping outside to grab the morning paper, which could **** well be a landmine. Oh, the things they must hear! Deafening silence. Deafening silence, through which, if you listen close enough, you’ll hear the shells burst and the bullets fire all day and all night. And you’re just plain crazy. Is the mailman a friendly? Is the neighbor’s kid deadly? It’s sure gotta be terror. Pure terror. I’d say I’m coming home, but I wouldn’t want anyone to feel the sorrow Or the pain or the guilt or any disappointment when I die tomorrow. The truth, though, is that I’ve been dead for three years and change now. Nobody lives. Nobody makes it here, We just Drone along, and Run through the hell we’ve come to know as Vietnam. Any man who says he’s “fine”? Well, that’s a **** filthy lie, For we’ve all come to run through the jungle Not to live, But to die.
0
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:30 AM UTC
derbyinthegreen
1970
Every day, even the nonreligious boys knelt and bowed, so as to pray, “Oh dear God,” they’d say, “Let me be the predator and not the prey!” April came, and for months we sang A sweet song about running away Not ‘cause we were afraid, We just didn’t want to stay We wanted to escape-- To take the A-train to the planes at Da Nang And go home. So we heeded the word And we ran through the jungle. Who could have ever guessed that a hamburger could be so unappetizing? Here’s the truth: that ain’t ketchup, and this ain’t child’s play. No Red-Riders or Daisies These toys are real and so is this pain. If you’re lucky, you can be saved If you’re lucky, it might just rain If you’re lucky, they’ll cancel the game If you’re lucky, you’ve got today. And what we imagined when we were tots About the war our fathers fought Was all fun ‘til we were caught In the A Shau Valley with jungle rot Starving half to death for a C-ration box, Brothers dying left and right—even if we could, we wouldn’t watch We had our sights lined up to fire shots Leaving behind us all our guts No time for stomachs tied up in knots No tears, no fear, we’re here to give ‘em hell And that’s our job So that’s what we’ll do. Search. Destroy. No sleep for days, a **** sure bet That sick feeling you’ll need to use your bayonet ‘cause some poor ******** so unfortunate To stumble upon you and take what he gets Surprise, surprise: no peace this year for beloved Tet “Happy New Year!” are they ready? Are they set? For two years, their leader’s dead And the VC’s still such a threat Both sides take turns mowing down men they’ve never met They want and we want each other to quit, That’s what we all expect But it still hasn’t happened yet. It’s been five-plus years and we’re still here Taking baby-faced rookies hardly old enough to drink a beer Turning them into hardened men through blood, sweat, and tears Black or white, straight or queer We’re all equal on the battlefields We don’t come cheap, but we come at a steal Valuable and worthless at the same time It all depends who you ask, the folks at home or the men on the lines And everyone in between has a different answer too Olive-Drab boys filling combat boots A couple thousand bucks for already-dying shoes To ****** the roots of a foreign land where none of us belong. Why can’t we leave ‘em alone? No time to ask questions, just follow your orders: **** and survive, Do your damnedest not to die, Then you can get on the plane and fly. Fly on home, under one condition: Survive the brimstone and ****** weather the storm and see the calm. Been here 3 years myself, and I heard stories-- Got letters from buddies who made it safe to Uncle Sam “They hate us back here. Why?” I ain’t quite sure, man! Life sure gets different real fast when you’re face-to-face with an enemy And in a split second, without a thought, you snap his arm and stab his throat Then lie him down, walk away, and that very same day, go write your girl back home a love-note. Sure, it’s gotta be nuts to them folks back home, staring into the deep and empty eyes of men who killed and died Out in those jungles where their country’s pride learned to hide like a silhouette when you **** the light. It’s gotta be nuts trying to adjust to waking up in a comfy bed without seein’ someone dyin’— The paranoia of stepping outside to grab the morning paper, which could **** well be a landmine. Oh, the things they must hear! Deafening silence. Deafening silence, through which, if you listen close enough, you’ll hear the shells burst and the bullets fire all day and all night. And you’re just plain crazy. Is the mailman a friendly? Is the neighbor’s kid deadly? It’s sure gotta be terror. Pure terror. I’d say I’m coming home, but I wouldn’t want anyone to feel the sorrow Or the pain or the guilt or any disappointment when I die tomorrow. The truth, though, is that I’ve been dead for three years and change now. Nobody lives. Nobody makes it here, We just Drone along, and Run through the hell we’ve come to know as Vietnam. Any man who says he’s “fine”? Well, that’s a **** filthy lie, For we’ve all come to run through the jungle Not to live, But to die.
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