500 More Words About Gregory

When Gregory was in high school, U.S. History class was the last of the day. Being one who rose with the early tide, Gregory's reserves of mental energy were always well and truly depleted by 2 p.m. As a result, he snoozed his way through the Civil War and missed William Tecumseh Sherman's quote, "War is hell."

Not that knowing the quote would have helped Gregory any when he came to his own realization: war was indeed hell.

Gregory had grown up in the desert - hot and dry. He was completely unprepared for the oppressive humidity laying over the Vietnamese jungle, like a blanket so thick Gregory thought he might drown just from breathing. Mosquitoes and blood flies buzzed throughout the base, achieving levels of infiltration and irritation the Viet Cong could only dream of.

Gregory hated every moment. Either he was bored to death or scared to death, there was no in-between. The only thing he learned of any value was not to play poker, he always lost.

Halfway done with his tour, the sergeant 'volunteered' Gregory for a night mission through the jungle. Gregory didn't really want to go, but he didn't really want to do anything, anyway. The night mission was just a different kind of misery as far as he was concerned.

Tramping through the jungle, lugging a radio and trying not to trip on tree roots, Gregory could barely see three feet in front of him.

And then, he could see everything. For several awful instants, he could see as clearly as if it were afternoon. Then the screaming started, drowned out a heartbeat later by machine gun fire. Gregory didn't think, he just dove for the ground, for the shelter of the thick jungle brush. Bullets whizzed above him and around him, but none hit. Though he had bitched when assigned the radio, he was now grateful for a shield.

After an eternity, the gunfire stopped. The only sound in the jungle was the heavy pounding of Gregory's heart, the low moans of wounded comrades. After a second eternity of silence, Gregory crawled out of the brush, expecting to die the very next second. There was no way to see except by the weak light of a half moon. Everything was grey and fuzzy in Gregory's sight. He bent over each fallen soldier. Two had died when the point man stepped on a mine. Half the remainder died under the resulting gunfire. The rest were moaning, alive but beyond mortal help. Gregory did what he could, knowing it was not enough.

Near the rear, he saw a second figure bent over the body of a solider. He wasn't dressed like a G.I., and anyone in the jungle not wearing American camo could be safely presumed to be Charlie. Slowly, trying not to make any noise, Gregory slid his gun up and drew the sights. He thought he'd been perfectly silent, but some small noise nevertheless alerted the figure.

His head snapped up, his eyes locked onto Gregory's. His finger halfway to the trigger, Gregory froze. The man wasn't Vietnamese, not with his wide, round eyes and aquiline nose.

"Bonjour" he said to Gregory.