I was neither a grunt nor an REMF, but somewhere in between. I should explain; I was an Air Force radar repairman stationed on an Army Special Forces A Team camp. That has provided me with some interesting memories. Every now and then, when I think of those long ago times, I relive the unexpressed anxiety when days slipped by and friends out on patrol didnt return on schedule.

The hours seemed to slow to a crawl as the days passed. Then, one morning would reveal that they had returned in the night while we slept, and the world was whole again. There was a breath of relief, silent thanks, and a weight lifted from the soul. All unexpressed, hidden in a smiling joke.

There was the nagging belief, or superstition, that a display of too much affection or friendship would somehow conjure up a jinx. Real affection was therefore not overtly displayed. It may have been foolish, but thats how I felt.

There is the enduring memory of the youngster who went on patrol when he wasnt scheduled to go because he wasnt being paid to sit around camp playing Liars Dice with a bunch of Zoomies. He became separated from the others somehow during an ambush, and they were unable to find him immediately.

I never saw him again, but when he was found a few days later, we were told that his body had been mutilated. He was full of good spirits when he left, so I prefer to remember him as I last saw him, smiling and happy. Lord knows he earned that pay.

I sometimes thought that the people back Stateside were very fortunate. We In Betweeners not only watched our friends depart from home, we had a much better idea of what they were doing - and what was being done to them - while we waited for their return.

Another time, I remember the voices from the radio as another camp was being overrun, and the angry, frustrated anguish as men, unable to assist, listened as their friends fought and died. Courageous men do weep, bitterly and unashamedly.

Curiously, I remember little of the times when we were attacked: the fiery stream of red tracers hosing down from above the flares, accompanied by a burping roar as Spooky circled invisibly overhead; a helicopter gunship darting like a vengeful, death-dealing firefly; mortars exploding, machine guns and rifles rattling.

The most vivid memory is not of the attacks on us, but of one on the village cheek by jowl with the camp. The worst part was when it was over and we went to aid the villagers. How do you calm a burned, bleeding child when you cannot even speak his language?

And, oddly enough, the memories of more peaceful times are much clearer. I suppose my mind prefers to recall the periods sitting on the sandbags watching the muted, dancing flashes from distant conflicts off on the horizon than replaying the episodes that were, as they say,  up close and personal. It is, of course, a defense mechanism; if one does not remember the more stressful times, there is less guilt felt in having survived them relatively unscathed.

© 7/30/2003 Thurman P. Woodfork