Vietnam Grunt

THE OLD GRUNT

He was 18 He was 35, it didn’t matter the tiredness in his bones the look in his eyes gave his war age away. His mind was far away in another land dreaming of clean sheets just for a nap then maybe a beer and a baseball game and a hot dog or two. But no, back to reality, back to the jungle! A cry, a moan, someone hurt?…. No it was him! This was old now this fighting and killing how long could this go on? How long did he have to feel nothing? How long must he watch people fight and kill and suffer and die? This was war; he knew now what it was all about and had grown to hate it. A taste of hell he thought, so this what’s it like? He was a kind and gentle man once,…. when was that? It was the kids that tore at his heart living the way they did with nothing. Nothing like he had growing up not even enough to eat. What could he do, only one old tired grunt trying to stay alive so he could go home in one piece. He gave his food away so many times to the kids and their moms so what, couldn’t stand to eat that crap any more any way what did it really matter, at least they would eat. From one hundred and 75 pounds to just around one hundred and 35 pounds now, still carrying the same old load with a lot less fat.


What happened to that little boy, why wouldn’t he stop when we called him? Stop!….. Stop!….. Or we’ll shoot!….. Or that little girl with the hand grenade in her bag on the bridge that day what made her give her life, did she know? These were kids we had no fight with them this just was not fair we never fought like this at home. Kids were kids you left them alone they couldn’t hurt you? The old grunt found out it was different over here they would use any means any weapon living or dead to hurt and kill them. The tiredness grew the loneliness too until all was left was pain and hurt and that thousand yard stare. A life here, a life snuffed out there one little life what does it matter, it doesn’t change the out come of war? You can’t save em’ all, how about one, just one can he take him home? Him, or Him, how about that one she’s cute her mom would give her up to go to a better place where they don’t kill kids, wouldn’t she? What’s wrong with people how could they do these things, oh well, he has to survive, what could one old tired grunt do? Its callous and hard this fight to survive he must save all his heart for him to take home can’t leave it here; he needs it there, what’s left of it.

The bombs bursting in air over the ramparts he watched that our flag was still there. Our living flag was the symbol, the very heart of our country, our great country. He was right there next to him in that hole, living and breathing sharing his worth watching his back as he watched his. He was a living flag waving in the darkness of thought through the pain and the hurt. Tired and rent, dirty and sick bloodied but not bowed, that old grunt went on he had to stand next to his friend what else could he do? There were no flags in that hole no bands no parades no awards just the two of them hoping against hope they survive that old grunt and his friend. So many were hurt so many had bled so many had died how much death was enough how long would they survive? Could they make it out alive those two grunts side by side?

Once he left was it over, over and done? Would it ever be over that fight in his mind could he leave it behind that old grunt of mine? How long shall it wave that truth in his heart till he’s old and gray and unable to say? He loves that flag of his, yes it’s his, he had earned that right to say and to pray and for every one else he did. He earned that blood stripe on the flag that he carries around in his heart for the ones not come home that old grunt of mine. His wife and his kids although they might try there he sits and he cries some times that old grunt of mine. Some say it’s a rag and it’s not alive they torch and they lie. To him it’s his friend old living stand by. It stands like a beacon that old red white and blue inside that old grunt yet it waves. One day it will cover his box as he goes on his way right out of this world. Let it never be said of that old grunt of mine that that he didn’t have courage or our flag on his mind. His family his friends never knew the hell he went through that old grunt of mine. GOD bless him and all that went through that torture of war their home now except the ones we left behind. Bring them home or send us back just a few and well show you how proud we were once of you. That old grunt now he’s tired and tempered by war like steel he loves, like a child he adores. There is not much left to say so he says, but you know there is more. GOD loves that old grunt, so should you,….. howed I know?…… that old grunt was me!

Copywrite 2001 Don Kozak