University of Virginia Library

Guard Duty

Three or four hours later, I
slid out into the mud to begin
my nightly seventy-five
minutes of guard duty. The
soldier I had come to relieve,
instead of moving back to the
hollow, wet darkness of his
tent, stayed where he was.
There is something about pain
that wants comfort and this
man, a sallow, unsure
Californian had decided to talk
with me. As he spoke about his
mother and his girlfriend and
his school and all his happier
memories, the sadness in his
eyes seemed to melt smoothly
away.

But when suddenly he
remembered where he was, felt
the rain and cold, slapped at
the insects circling his head, he
once again sensed the full
weight of his oppression. The
futility, confusion, and
bitterness of the war poured
out of him.

Why, he demanded? Why
me? What for? Who's
responsible? It was the same
plaintive song that we all sing
in Vietnam. For, quite literally,
almost no one here believes in
the war anymore, or
understands what we are doing
here or why we first came. The
only thing my friend felt sure
about was that the men who
sent us here will never feel the
Vietnamese rain or fight the
jungle bogs.