Australian-American War of 1978
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It was a cold morning as the sun rose over the desolate mud-slicked hills. A fine mist clouded the air, and a thick fog clung to the ground, making it almost impossible to see ahead of you. All you knew that existed out there was you and your wits.
You never knew what would happen on those cold, cold winter mornings. Usually, nothing ever happened. But sometimes....It was either all or nothing....
As I marched on, a foul smell hit my platoon. We all fell, retching and coughing, eventually getting our gas masks on. What lay ahead still plagues me to this day.
It was a blood bath. The land was strewn with corpses, mud, trenches, and shit. We'd seen the trenches before...well, at least we'd seen photos of them. We'd always been shut up with the idle threat of transfer to "The Trenches". Some of us would even joke around about it, but this was no joke.
It wasn't just the deep rips in the earth, or the mud and blood mixed together. No. No, it was the silence. The silence of a thousand dead men, all shrieking with their final breath, trying to take as many of the son's a bitches out as they lay there dyin'.
And to think, that wasn't even the beggining.
All you pussies go on about 'Nam. All you go on about the Agent Orange and the neurological damage you faced. Feh! At least you got recognition for the sweat you put into your war. Us, we got nothin'. We return, victorious, and find that the war's not even been covered! I lost a leg for this??! I mean, my god! I come back from In Country and find you fuckin' pinkos are all against what I've sacrificed twelve and a quarter years for! I lost my damned arms out there for you! I'm stuck in a little red wagon, draggin' myself along, and for what? THIS?!
Fuck. I got boomerang shrapnel in my head for you damn commies. I lost my right eye so you could use your stupid Macintosh's or whatnots and wear your little French berets in your hair. Fuck.
I mean, I still wake up screaming (with whats left of my mouth) to the sounds of those Aboriginal horns and the stampede of a thousand kangaroos. Those damn 'roos...killed my best friend, Fatty. They took my shins! Had to beat 'em to death with a hunk of Fatty, to! I think it was his left thigh or summat.
After I returned 'doc told me I'd never walk again, what with me missing all my shins and legs 'n stuffs. Fourteen months later, I walked up to him and head butted him RIGHT IN THE BALLS!! Now who'll never walk again, 'doc?? HUH???!?
The army had run short on cash while I was out there. Somethin' about Vietnam or something. So, instead of sending us grenades, they sent us cans of Dr. Pepper! Had to shake 'em up real good. Chuck 'em at them Kanga-roos, watch 'em shriek as it hit. Popped 'em good!
Occasionally used poprocks. Had to down a liter of coke and run in there...that's how Frankie died.
We were cornered, up in the hills. Knew we wouldn't - couldn't - make it out alive that day. Frankie knew it to. Just grabbed all the coke and 'rocks he could, and ran straight into the nest. Drank an entire twelve pack on the way there, popped some Mentos and pops. Never seen so much gut meats in my life!
They never had proper fundin'. Had to use cap guns or old Tec 9's from WW VIII!! 'Course, that was pretty advanced for 'th time. All they really had by then was that and sticks. And fists. Don't forget the fists.
All in all, that was the worst summer job I ever had.
Love, Alex
