In The Guard Tower (Vietnam 1971)

It was my turn to pull guard duty that night.
The daily roster never lied, though we tried
To sell our duty or deal it away.

The monsoon rain pounced on the tin roof
Of the guard tower like wild cats.
We’d get bored at night and shoot rats
In the rolled concertina and barbed wire perimeter,
Trashing through beer cans and coke cans
And C-rat packs: the American garbage
Of our throwaway lives, of our imperial pride.

As we scoped the Ville from our sandbagged perches,
Awaiting sappers and mortars and snipers
Feral dogs night-stalked for prey,
Reminding me of Africa’s hyenas,
Running in ad-hoc packs attacking
Even their own kind, all ribs and instinct.

I had on my camouflaged steel helmet,
So hot, so heavy, so useless.
My field gear was strapped on my back
And my front was crisscrossed with bandoleers,
Making me feel like a Yanqui bandito.
The M-16 clips were loaded with
Now thinkable potentials of death.
My rifle was locked with a clip
But almost never loaded. And I’d find myself
Laughing in the far-eastern night
The way the dogs of this war bayed at the moon.
And I wondered whatever led me to this precipice.
How in the hell did I ever get here -
Defending the indefensible?

I felt like most others – that the past world
Of my home was all like dream,
And living here, no, surviving this
Only this was surreal –
This rear echelon limbo between the heaven of home
And the hell of the grunts.

I was only twenty-one, but wise beyond my years
Having seen much more than I ever wanted to see.
And I pitied the naïve eyes of the newly arrived -
Nineteen-year-olds thrust into a world
They could not comprehend. And I realized
I was not doing much better after all.

But then at times it seemed funny
Like that night in the monsoon rain.
It had to I guess to lessen the pain
Because thinking about it made all of us laugh
And that way we could forget to feel.
The laughter was needed then –ironic armor
Put to good use. But it’s not so funny now.
No, now it’s not funny at all.

- © By Mark S. Foley