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Rain. Wet, but not real wet. Steady, more-than-a-drizzle. The sheen of tree trunks, marbled by rivulets. The patter-plop of drops-on-leaves. A thousand jungle timpani beating in time to no-time.

A platoon on patrol. Ponchos glistening. Helmet covers soaked to the steel. Moving carefully from hill-top to valley, and back again. Just a walk in the rain.

"Just a'walking in the rain."

Who was it? Danny Kaye? Yeah. That's the dude.

Leaches. Ten hundred million slimy, wet, blood sucking, [expletive].

Squirt a little bug-juice on 'em, and watch 'em squirm.

Mud. Two steps forward, one step back. Progress. Muttered curses. Pity the man walking drag.

Where to now, LT?

"Goin' home in a body-bag. Doodah. Doodah."

Play it, Sam.

Rest halt. Wet cigs. Pull out ten spongy fags to find one half dry, then light it with dishwater hands squirking the rasp on a Zippo lighter. Good shee-it.

John Wayne ought'a see me now.

Shred the cigs too wet to light in the arcane belief that the North Vietnamese really care what you smoke.

C-ration ham'n eggs. They always taste better when they're wet. Effing gourmet meal.

Where's the hot sauce?

A beer and a hot fire would go good right about now. Yeah, right. You don't think about it long. Rest halt's over. C'mon feet. Do your thing.

The squish of water in-and-out of your jungle boots. Dry socks in your rucksack. Maybe. Yeah. Hope Doc remembered the foot powder.

Then, just when you think you're about to get used to the wet, someone steps on a landmine.

It's not the point team. They're too lucky for that to happen. It ain't the LT, he's never where he's supposed to be. It ain't the LT's RTO. RTOs are protected by the All Mighty. It ain't none of the above.

It's your buddy, Thump Gunner.

You rush to help him. Oh, sweet ever-lovin' Jesus.

One foot is gone. Gone. No boot, no nothin'. Just white leg-bone stickin' out. And, he's moaning, tryin' hard not to scream and give away your location. Though, God knows, the explosion must have been heard as far away as Fire Base Ripcord.

His free-flowing blood mingles with the rain, and pools on the leafy jungle floor.

He's got fragments up his legs and in his crotch. Never mind that you picked up a piece or two in your arm.

You fumble for his first aid pack and fish out the field dressing--all in slow motion. This can't be happening. You try to scream; for him and for yourself, but words won't come.

He's dying. Somebody, please! Help Thump Gunner!!!

You try to scream again ... and wake up.

It's raining. The plop-patter of drops-hitting-leaves brings you back home. The screened-in porch provides shelter, but you can feel the hard damp. The Sunday paper lies scattered next to your lounge chair. Half an Irish whiskey sits on a small table. The supper dishes are still in the sink in the kitchen. The Sonora chimes strike midnight.

Slowly, you move to the porch door and look out at the dark. Tears stream down your cheeks.

So long ago. So many years.

Gotta' go to bed. Tomorrow's another day.

Best wife is in bed. Asleep. Has been for hours. Beautiful; all naked shadows and blond hair. She stirs.

"Mfff. You okay, honey?"

"Yeah, babe. I'm okay."

"You've been crying, darling. What is it? Another bad dream?"

"Yeah, just a bad dream."

"Come to bed, honey. It's okay now."

"Sure, babe. Lemme hit the can first."

But, it's not okay--and never will be.

You stand, straddling the commode, and try to relax. The warm stream finally comes. Bad aim. You feel the splatter-splash of pee hitting your leg.

Piss on it. Piss on all of it.

Trav

 

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NIGHT CONTACT

Harvest Moon
 
Silver moonlight,
Flickering wraithlike among the night shadows,
Shines grimly on our harvest--death.
 
Harvest Moon.
 
No cornfields here.
The melody of song is lost
In the chatter of M-16 rifle fire
And the answering bark of AK-47s.
 
Shine on; shine on Harvest Moon.
 
Shadows die in darkness,
Silhouetted in the red agony of bursting grenades.
Moonlight bathes us in the aftermath
Of night contact, bringing order
Out of chaos.
 
Moonlight, healer of fragile minds
And frightened soldiers.
 
The Harvest Moon, of course, shines best
When you are the reaper.
 
Trav,
101st, 2/506, 1970-71
 

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FOR GABE
 
Drink,
I'll tell you what it's like
To be friends with a man.
 
We've fought together
Side by side, in Hell
And other places.
 
I call one man my brother
And my friend. By God,
He gave a damn.
 
We'll sit together drinking whiskey
Laughing, drinking, remembering
Those who did the dying.
 
Pour another, we were bleeding
Still each other we were needing.
Damn.
 
Drink,
I'll tell you what it's like
To be friends with a man.
 
Trav,
Dec. 1970
 
Gabe and his company saved my life and the lives of my men on July 23, 1970. Gabe passed away on October 4, 2000. I was able to visit him in September before he died
 

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MY COBBLER: COMBAT CUISINE
 
I've learned to cook a little bit in this far and foreign land.
Mine ain't the best as some can cook, but you need to understand
That here it's quite a ritual when we stop the war to eat.
The worst we do is make it hot, and the best is quite a treat.
 
Now the best meal I have eaten, and the best that I can make
Is a c-ration can of peaches and a can of white pound cake.
I mix them in a canteen cup with sugar and powdered cream,
Then place it on a good hot fire, for my "Cobbler Supreme."
 
One day when we were on patrol, we took a mid-day break,
And I got a can of peaches and a can of white pound cake.
Security was tight and the men were all alert,
And oh, how I was looking forward to eating my desert.
 
No sooner was it ready, the first spoonful to my mouth,
Then the enemy made a ground attack, from the north and from the south.
Shocked was I, and quite upset, at the enemy's choice of time.
It took some gall to start a fight when most men like to dine!
 
I hit the dirt beside a tree, and placed the cobbler there,
Then scrambled off to join the fight, still thinking, "It ain't fair."
The fight was quickly over, almost as soon as it'd begun,
And I checked around for injured men and we hadn't lost a one.
 
Then I turned back to my cobbler -- the canteen cup was on its side!
An AK round had struck it, and at my feet the cobbler died.
Oh, irony or ironies, I thought with mounting dread.
The shell that took my cobbler's life had been meant for me instead!
 
I picked it up so tenderly, placed it in a plastic bag,
And laid it in a shallow grave, with a tiny U.S. Flag.
Someone had a Purple Heart, and pinned it to a cross,
And from somewhere a man hummed taps, while I thought about my loss.
 
The war still rages 'round this land, and it is filled with strife,
And I still rue that awful day when my cobbler lost its life.
Deep within the jungle, in a shallow unmarked grave,
There lies an unknown cobbler, unknown but very brave.
 
Cheers,
Trav,
 
P.S. I wrote this 31 years ago, in the bush, after a similar event actually happened. We all need a little comic relief from time to time, then and now.
 

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NOT A NORMAL PLACE TO BE
 
Dirt, dust, windswept mountain top.
 
Hueys come and go, Chinooks drop heavy loads
Of ammo, wire, blivets of water, fuel oil for the generators.
 
We labor under the sun and wind,
Stringing barbed wire and concertina
And digging holes in the ground.
Holes for our protection.
 
Something nags at us,
Something inhuman floats above our labors
And tugs at our souls.
This is not a normal place to be.
 
Denny Heinz digs, and digs,
Lifting dirt from a place he will call home
For the time we are here.
Shovel-full after shovel-full he digs.
 
He does not know, can not know
That where he digs has been dug before.
Metal strkes metal, but he feels it not,
And lifts another shovel-full of earth.
 
The grenade explodes.
 
Lifted to face level,
It blasts Denny Heinz with the force of demons.
How could he know it had been there
Since the last occupants buried it?
 
Doc is there immediately,
So is Foret, the sergeant,
I am close behind.
Heinz is shattered, dying.
 
Gasping, Doc gives CPR,
A medevac is called ... anxious moments.
The clatter of rotors slap the air,
Heinz will be saved.
 
I remember this as clearly as if it were yesterday.
The medevac hovered over our position. We loaded
Heinz on the chopper, fixed to a stretcher. The
transfer from one medic to another took place.
The medevac huey lifted off, and Doc began to cry,
"Give him CPR, give him breath!" But it didn't happen.
The chopper medic was too new, a cherry, and was
shocked by the sight of his first casualty.
 
Doc was inconsolable, and for good reason. In a few
minutes we knew. Heinz had died in route to the aid
station in the rear.
 
There's a Wall now, in D.C.
A place we go to remember heroes like Denny,
A place we go to remember all those who died,
Serving their country in a dirty little war.
 
The Wall, too, is not a normal place to be.
 
Trav (2001)
 

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RIGHT 12....DROP 2
 
Mid-July 1970 when FSB Ripcord was under siege, I monitored an exchange between our FAC (Bilk 43) and the CO of B/2-319 Arty (our 105mm direct support battery on the base). The FAC had just expended a set of fast-movers on a .51 cal position in a cave down low on a small ridge, with no apparent effect, since green tracers kept popping past the FAC's cockpit. In frustration, he called the TOC and asked if there was any way to shoot the target with a 105. Quicker'n you can say "this ol' Army is alllright" the battery CO had a 105 moved to the log pad, propped up the trails on ammo boxes, and pointed the snout down the mountain side toward the offending North Vietnamese machine gunners. He fired a round for the FAC to adjust--shot, out--and here is the abridged version of what happened.
 
FAC: That's good, that's good. Move it right about 100 yards and down about 50.
 
The battery CO didn't bat an eye that the FAC didn't know the correct Army terminology for adjusting fire. A few seconds later another 105 round slammed into the jungle. Shot, out.
 
FAC: That's close, really close. Adjust right 25 yards and drop 10 yards.
 
Hell, the closest change the arty make on adjustments is 25 meters x 25 meters. The CO didn't hesitate, and another 105 round burst near the enemy position. Shot, out.
 
FAC: [Very excited voice now.] We're really close. Right 12 feet and drop 2 feet.
 
Arty CO: Roger, wait ... shot, out.
 
FAC: [Jumping up and down in his cockpit.] You got 'em! Right into the mouth of the cave. Nothing but smoke and flame coming out. You got 'em!
 
Now, how the heck can you put an adjustment of right 12 feet, drop 2 feet on a 105 howitzer propped up on ammo boxes, and which isn't even surveyed in? Sometime later, after the siege ended and my redleg friend recovered from wounds and returned to duty, I met him in the rear during a standdown. I asked him the question.
 
His reply: "Just piss down the bore and lean against the tube."
 
That's good enough for me.
 

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