O.P.
Gordon Neumann
Company A, 1/12th Cavalry- 1969-1970
He sat, staring into the darkness—black impenetrable, jungle-dark—eyeballs straining, seeing nothing but the void. The scent of primordial forest’s molding decay and the ripe, deep-greenery of triple canopy surrounded him. His back leaned against the thick trunk of a tall banyan tree. His ears heard the night silence and imaginary tinnitus-crickets that chirped in his head, but not the squelch of his PRC-25 radio which was turned down.
He was alone, wrapped in a camouflage, sateen poncho liner, gripping his M-16—waiting, his mind in a private war, in the middle of a larger one. His tired body ached to be asleep—but, he stared into the night—waiting.
Waiting with thoughts of fear—and all the little things—of all the ways to die—the memories of love estranged—the reality of now’s struggle to survive—the surreality of a future-to-be, wondering how he became a soldier where the French Foreign Legion used to be.
Just a year ago he’d had it made, living in the cocoon of college life—protected from life really, still a boy in a man’s body where mid-terms and research papers and parties and football games and final exams were the biggest concerns—not booby traps, bunker complexes and an enemy, everywhere, trying to kill you.
He wondered why had he hid and run from that. Why was he here—in the jungle of nowhere, staring at the black specter of death—had he run away from the man he was afraid to be—a phony in a society where he was truly lost—trying to visualize a future he couldn’t see—just like the blackness in front of his eyes—now.
Life is so simple now—when facing death. Survival is victory—and still exciting enough to overcome the everyday agonies of being in the boonies in a thankless war.
And yet—life was so hard, waiting within the subliminal tension. The waiting is when the demons took charge—all the what-ifs slithered through his psyche like crawling sappers, intent on silent killing missions.
So he stayed awake, staring—ears straining to hear movement—the occasional buzzing of a mosquito or the baleful squawk of a fuck-you lizard—“fok you, fok you”—that sounded so much like a gook trying to seek him out.
His mind could be his enemy, depending on what he thought—so he let himself think of a time he loved—when life was innocent and smiling—naked in the arms of a young girl—having bold, exciting, teen-age sex—with all its fantastic curiosity—breathing heavily—with his hard penis in the safe confines of female mystery that milked him—with her gently smiling into his face. He could remember her face—but not her name.
"Fok you, fok you,” another lizard screamed—and his mind went back to the jungle—back to the blackness—back to the war—back to his exile of waiting in his observation post, 25 meters outside the company’s night defensive perimeter.
Stay awake, fucker, he thought—if you don’t want to be found sleeping with a sliced-throat—that silent kind of death that is dying like a baby—not like a soldier, in a bold hail of whizzing bullets and booming explosions.
When death came he wanted to greet it with his anger and hot lead blasting out on boogaloo--he wanted to scream at it in defiance—into its hollow tunnel of horror.
If they come, he thought—they’ll come at the witchin’—just before dawn—that’s when the creepers’ come—the sappers seek you out—and, if you’re sleeping—you sleep forever—die a crib death, without a whimper—just gurgling your blood—then silence—silent peace, surrounding.
God, I’ve got to stay awake, he shouted in his brain.
He leaned against the tree—staring—waiting—he had the last watch—staring into the dark before the dawn—he had to be strong—but, just a short wink—closing heavy eyelids—relaxing, for just a moment…
The sun’s first rays of dawn streamed through the jungle’s canopy, greeting his eyelids, which were still closed.
That is how they found him, smiling from the throat, later in the morning, sitting against the trunk of a large banyan tree—as well as the other bodies of the four-man O.P. lying on the ground nearby.