* * *

        “Look at that wall!” says one of the kids.

        “Why does it have all those names on it?”

        I am the official tour guide for their group and

        it's my job to explain those names to these kids.

        Who are so young, probably don't know a thing

        about Vietnam, maybe never seen a war movie.

        Perhaps their parents have watched us charge from

        a landing craft to hit the sandy beach, six-shooters

        at our sides and surfboards strapped to our backs.

        Tunes of the time—Jimi Hendrix, Creedence, the

        Doors—provide a sound track as we hump off into

        the boonies to notch another victory for Uncle Sam.

        But this war movie has a different script.

        The hearts and minds we were supposed to win

        flee from us. Little girls scamper along the dirt

        roads, naked, screaming, dripping their skin.

        We must destroy what we want to save,

        call napalm down on ourselves to survive,

        and even the corpses are booby-trapped.

        The jungle itself becomes an enemy.

        B-40's ripen beside the trails waiting to

        blossom in our faces. Below lurk punji

        sticks fire-hardened by the heat of

        some tropical wood that hates us.

        The alien rice paddies rot our feet, the

        whores rot our blood, the junk rots our

        skulls, and just being here rots our souls.

        Every morning we fieldstrip our brains

        so we can get through one more of the

        year of days standing between us and

        our plane ticket back to the real world.

        And then we clean our M-16's like our

        lives depend on them because they do.

        In this war movie's final scene we push past

        a desperate mob, clamber up to a crowded

        rooftop, scramble aboard the last bird out,

        and disappear forever into a sea of scorn.

                     When it's over the only credits

                    are all those names on that wall.

                                                 * * *