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376 pages, Hardcover
First published September 8, 2009
The day Dam walked away from Thai Giang [his home], taking the shortcut through the rice fields with his bride and his sister, was the beginning of a thousand-mile journey that would take him finally to Gia Lai and his encounter with Homer. On the first day he and the other young men from Thai Giang laughed and sang, filled with the excitement of leaving home and the adventure that awaited them, the opportunity they felt they had been given for an instant transition into adulthood or immortality.
They mustered in Thai Binh, where they were issued green cotton uniforms with plastic buttons, webbed cotton belts, sun helmets – made not of pith, as the Americans assumed, but rather of pressed cardboard covered with green cloth – and Chinese green canvas boots. For many of them it was the first time they had completely encased their feet and ankles. They were given backpacks of dark green cotton and chest pouches with three larges pockets in front to hold the thirty-round banana-clip magazines they would eventually carry. As soon as they were dressed, they were also given a taste of what the next years would bring, when they were marched by night fifty kilometers to the larger town of Nam Dinh. The march didn’t faze them – they were tough farm boys – but the boots did, and before long many had taken them off and slung them over their necks by their laces.
They searched the jungle for signs of the NVA. Too often they acted as bait; the enemy was located when it hit them. Vines clutched at the men’s arms and legs to delay or trip them; sometimes they would fall with a clatter of equipment. Clouds of mosquitoes buzzed around their heads and settled into their ears and on whatever skin was exposed. Their sweat poured over and around the bumps of insect bites that covered their skin and made them itch more fiercely; scratching them lead easily to suppurating infections. Heat rash prickled their shoulders and chests and crotches like someone was driving hot needles further into their flesh with each step or rub of their packs. The triple-canopy layers of the trees enveloped them in a steamy, green-stained gloom. “Day after day, same thing,” recounts Tom Lacombe, whose unit, Bravo Company, 3rd Battalion, 12th Infantry, moved in that same area, “dawn to dusk, one foot in front of the other, lean over, try and catch your breath, shift the load, hope for a time-out.” At night Homer and his men pulled off the leeches, wrapping themselves in their ponchos, and caught a few moments of uneasy sleep. The sweat and dirt felt like a filthy crust freezing on their skin as the temperature plummeted with the darkness. Every three or five days they’d find or hack out a landing zone for the helicopters to come in and resupply them; pull out the wounded; and bring mail, ammo and rations. They got used to water, dipped out of jungle streams, that tasted like bleach from their purification tablets.
I was helping the door gunner load the bodies onto to the next chopper, when the poncho blew back, revealing the guy’s head, with maggots squirming in the goo that had once been his eyes. The door gunner fell to his knees and began projectile vomiting.
… he watched in awe as an unarmed medic, a conscientious objector, crawled time after time into the heaviest fire, taking a bullet through the shoulder and then through the buttocks, but still dragging back the wounded to safety…
Homer had returned to his native soil, but he was in a shifted universe in which everything had a different meaning to him than to the people around him. He had seen and done things that he knew the people around him did not want to know about, and because of that he knew he could never rejoin them.