Leaving For Okinawa In The Morning Poem by Kyle Schlicher

The transit hooch is busy with noise.
We have our orders
and will be leaving tomorrow.
Everyone is happy and talking.
Some are saying
let's go get drunk!
Others are saying
no way! I want to be sober in case we get hit.

Soon, the hooch is deserted except for a few of us.
Conversations revolve around home,
how much has it changed
and what we will be doing
this time next week.
In the background we can hear
rockets, mortars and gunfire.
But, we know it is a safe distance away.

Four of us decide to walk around
and look for the nearest bunker
just in case we'll need it.
We find it and try to will ourselves
to remember where it is
because we know in that split second
of an attack
we will probably revert to old habits
and be exposed for too long a time
because we are confused
about where we are.

Back at the hooch I make a decision.
I am sleeping with my jungle utilities and boots on.
I don't trust this place where I am sleeping tonight.
I lie down on my rack
and stare at the top of the hooch
as I try to relax.
My mind wanders
and as much as I hate this place
I feel like I am leaving home.

Twelve months and twenty days
I have been in country.
Fifteen months ago I said good bye
to loved ones.
I know I am one of the lucky ones.
Others never made it
and others will bear the scars
of their wounds for the rest of their lives.

Somehow, I doze off into that light sleeping mode
all of us have grown accustomed to.
Faraway firefights and explosions are of no concern.
Later, a few drunks stagger in here and there.
Some of them singing and cheering.
Soon they collapse in sleep and begin snoring.
Sometime after midnight
the first rockets scream overhead
and I am up in a flash
before the first explosion.
A few others and myself start steaming 'Incoming! '
And then we are out the door.
The drunks are slower and the last ones out.
This is one time they are on their own.
No one wants to die their last morning in Vietnam.

Overhead the flares explode
and light up the night.
Rockets and mortars are impacting in the area.
Our bunker line and the machine gunners
are busy returning the fire
and we can hear Claymores going off.
We don't have any weapons.
We are totally dependent on the bunker line defense
to keep them off of us.

We can hear the gunships up
and taking the battle to the enemy.
The arty guys are also doing that thing
they do so well.
This is all good and soon it is all over.
It didn't last long
and was never intended to do so.
The enemy loves to do this
no matter where you are in country.
It is an effective tactic
and they do it all the time.

We crawl out of the bunkers.
We are lucky.
The closest rounds missed us by 25-50 meters.
We walk back to the hooch
as if nothing has happened.
Not far away
the casualties and maybe even the dead
are being tended to
as medical personnel go rushing by.
We are unconcerned as we have a saying,
just another night in the Nam.

Morning finally breaks
and some of us walk to the mess.
It will be our final meal in country.
A few of us are acting strange and out of it.
We are definitely quieter
and keeping to ourselves.
No conversations or spoken thoughts about home.
But, I know what's on their minds
because it is on my mind.
It is the unknown.
The unknown is out there waiting on us.

The unknown.

It is the final ambush we will face.

(2-02-1969)