The Nam

The “Nam”

One day when I was a young whippersnapper (Dad)

I traipsed off to the place known as “the Nam”

I hated the name “Nam” because it made it seem more like a restaurant, instead of a place with very live (about to be dead) real people; wonderful people at that.

 Well, what did I fine there?

            Smoke

            Fire

            Bullets

            Bombs, large and small

            Death

            Lost limbs, some simply severed

            Blood

            Napalm

            Torture

            Burns

            Rage

            Prostitutes

            Marijuana and heroin

            Knives

            Ripped boots

            Fatigues

            Many grimaces + shrieks

            etc, etc

            ……and great beauty

And then one day while in a “village”:

            A hut filled with the badly burned, charred bodies of young children.

            13 of them altogether; a number easily remembered.

            All the results of a well executed Air Force sortie.

            How they got there was a mystery, at least to me and the Captain (also a    whippersnapper) that stumbled upon them.

The natural conclusion: at least to us, in the moment; DO SOMETHING.

            Maybe even something humane.

            The foolishness, of the young and naïve.

So… we scampered through the scalded remains of the dead, ripping and tearing the clothes off the men and the dresses of the lifeless women, to gingerly wrap the still breathing and transport them in the next chopper to medical attention, in Saigon.

Seemed, reasonable.  And we loaded them carefully.  No room left in this chopper; we will take the next available ferry back to Saigon ourselves. Things were getting hotter by the millisecond, as the Viet Cong were closing distance.

Jump on Chopper.  Go home.  Airbase; Tong Sen Nhut.

The catch: no children, on any chopper ever arrived in Saigon. Their flight was more down than up.

How was a simpleton, whippersnapper, to realize no one was was going to allow the plethora of journalists that inhabited “The Nam”, to photograph the hideously wrecked bodies of yellow children.  The stuff that would reach the Sunday newspapers and the US porch stoop.  And in color, it just would not have been a “nice” accompaniment to the sweet rolls.

I wondered everyday, if America truly understands the notion of karma?

After Iraq, I knew for certain.