A War

Now, Bear with me since this one is not quite finished. And I'm not sure when it will be. So, I beg your forgiveness as you read this piece as you might have unanswered questions.

War is stupid. Allow me to educate you how this thesis is indeed factual. The reasons for any particular war are greatly varying and always mean something different to the person standing next to you. The bottom line for every war, however is death. The 1 goal for each and every war is death greater than your own for your enemy. Perhaps it's not a goal, but rather an avenue or a means toward the real goal: resources, honor, moral standing, etc. It's ironic that collateral damage is talked about so much in war because that's exactly war; war is -by definition- collateral damage for what goals the warring party seeks to achieve. No one can fully comprehend any war, with the exception of wars waged by lunatics. (ie.) World War 2, Hitler contracted syphilis and became mentally unstable as a result. A war against lunacy and chaos is the only war where a definitively good and bad side can be established. Here, there is no good side or bad side. There is crime, but no justice. There is death, but no retribution. 
War is stupid because the man sitting on the lichen on my 3 is here to kill other men, women, and children for the sake of having the most bronze, silver, and gold on his army jacket at the end. It's stupid because the other man standing on my 10 taking a leak is here to kill men, women, and children to eradicate communism. Meanwhile, I sit in between them smoking one of my last cigarettes on the one piece of dry kindling in the whole fucking country, not about to kill anyone. Apparently, being against murder/death -the sole purpose for all war- isn't actually enough to keep you out of Uncle Sam's legion. No, you also have to be a professional wordsmith to persuade old Sam to leave you in your home with your family.

Warm Fucking Regards, 

You Know

So, because of inherently stupid war, I sat in the thick, milky, Vietnam heat smoking that cigarette, writing my 3rd letter of protest to the United States Government. I tried relaxing for a second as I closed up the envelope and put it in my pocket. I listened to the birds. I thought 'birds are always beautiful' and they'd helped me retain my sanity when the children were on a particularly sugary rampage. But what people assume about birds is that they're all charming and pretty. To the contrary, the birds in Vietnam, or the ones that I could hear in that moment - the ones I could hear over the sound of other wild beasts' murderous calls and terrifying mating noises- were actually so sharp and threatening, when gunfire started raining on us, I think relieved at least one part of my subconscious. Really, it did. From that moment on, I actually knew what to do. I didn't have the time to think about how pissy war was and such; I had to survive. And I had to help my fellow man survive. Orders obviously called for retaliation, but we were away from the platoon and Astor's pants were still unzipped as he hit the dirt next to me behind the wood. I was covered in filth and slop once again. Aster had already unloaded a clip of his M16 into the woods where the bullets had originated when I finally managed to pull mine from under a vine it snagged on. I confirmed that Astor was fine here but also confirmed that there could only be purple medals heading for Lader's jacket if he could ever wear it again. I took my lighter and hurled it at his head. A bullet whizzing by struck the lighter and caused it to explode about 9 inches from his head. I suppose the notion that being blown into pieces to get eaten by the animals that had been so instrumental in our combined hatred for Vietnam was a possibility, caused him to reason that this was worse for him than merely being shot. He took cover faster than snail's eye can suck into its body.
At this point, I screamed at my to comrades, "We gotta get back to the compound! NOW!" As soon as the words stopped flying out of my mouth, the grass beneath my feet became fire and I blazed a path back to the compound. I climbed the 10 foot tall, chain link fence in no more than half of a nanosecond. I looked over my shoulder to see if my comrades had made it out of immediate danger yet and flashed back to a recurring dream I'd had: I'd always been with my father; I'd always ventured into the 'imagination station,' against orders from my parents; There'd always been a giant brown octopus; And, I'd always escaped through the trees and over the fence whereas I would look over my shoulder to see my father get ripped to pieces by the octopus. He could always make it to the fence, but he would always get stuck on the top. I saw Lader break through the jungle and traverse the fence possibly faster than I. As Astor approached the fence though, I saw my father. Astor wasn't as out of shape, as old, as short, or even brown haired like my father. He was fit, like Lader and he was tall and blonde like him too. But Astor was a good man. He had different views than I, like my father, but he stood with them. He was a true man of the old days. He had a code to live by and he followed it. As he reached the top of the fence, I had to turn around and help him over. As I pulled his arm and leg down, the octopus got me. I was shot in neck. It was a glancing blow, about an inch from my jugular. I blacked out almost immediately. I stopped having the dream. I'll tell you one thing that is certain; The pain from a .22 caliber bullet is/was a hell of a lot better than watching a man be eaten by a brown octopus every other night.
That was the night that I began to have time to think. I thought about silver linings. I had been nearly obsessed with that dream over the past few months. I thought, "Would I help my dad over the fence? Or, when the time came, would I choose my own survival over the common good? How am I supposed to know? I mean I think I would, but doesn't everyone until the shit really hits the fan?" I would constantly question my own morality. "The dream is a metaphor, man. You're totally gonna choke when it's crunch time. You're gonna see your kids' faces or something you see in the movies and all of the sudden, you'll wake up under a blanket clutching a picture of your family. You'll black out and there won't be decision making and regret and time and your mind or right or wrong or morality or justice. It'll be instinct. Dreams are the barest form of your subconscious and your dream wants to fuck your own Dad over," I'd say to myself. "Ya well I'll just make sure I tell myself over and over that I want to make the right choice and it'll become part of my psyche. That's what they taught us in Psychology 201," I would debate back. I was so glad to be done with that part of my life, the IV that was in my arm for three weeks after that didn't bother me. It didn't bother me, neither did those ridiculous birds. And I mean, being in a hospital, as you probably learned from Forest Gump, (depending on the hospital-a big asterisk on this sentence) is like moving from Rwanda to Orange County. So I then had ample time to reflect on my life thus far. And eventually, I became grateful for that VC. He sent me home healthy three months later, 2 years early, and that was most likely his dying act.