I was not a combat soldier,
So, I was relatively safe, unless
Our helicopter was shot at, unless
Our jeep hit a land mine, unless
Our base camp was rocketed, unless
The enemy breached the perimeter.
We were, after all, in a war zone.

I would sit out on guard duty,
M-60, which I had never fired, to my right,
30 Claymore detonators to my front,
Wondering what I would do,
If the enemy came at me.

I wouldn’t have believed 
They could penetrate the maze of wire and explosives
But in training we saw them do it.
Considering that, I didn’t seem like much of an obstacle.

In the distance Cobra gunships were attacking,
Far enough away that I couldn’t hear them.
Pink and white tracers danced in swirling arcs.

Rockets, like reverse roman candles,
Streaked from air to ground.
Below them the earth glowed red.
It had a silent beauty,
Unless you realized that ten miles away
A village was being shredded to bits
By the horrific force of 
Exploding metal and flaming heat.

I stared at the sky.
It was not a Minnesota sky.

Like a chaotic Paris with chipped paint.
The staccato chatter of motorbikes
And Tuk Tuks overflowing with riders.
Wide avenues and intersections
With no order,
Stoic drivers dodging one another. 

Street markets with fresh food
As far as the eye can see.
Feathery cages of ducks and chickens,
Heaps of melons
In a surprising variety of shapes and colors

Neighborhoods fashioned from 
Sheets of black market pop cans.
A Coca Cola house here.
A Dr. Pepper house there. 

Too much of everything.
People flooding the city from the north.
Apartments overflowing,
Streets overflowing,
Cars overflowing.
No one is smiling.
Everything is happening too fast,
As if time is running out.

The Black Virgin mountain,
Just east of Tay Ninh.
U. S. communications station at its summit.
U. S. fire support camps surrounding its base.
Viet Cong controlling the middle of the mountain.
In the night, they came off the mountain to wreak havoc. 

The next day we would bomb Nui Ba Din
Into a cloud of smoke.
The Viet Cong used escape tunnels
Into the safety of the mountain;
That night they resurfaced to create chaos. 

Nui Ba Din mirrored the war.
We had better electronic communication.
We had more fire power.
They were on their home field.

They had more patience and resolve.
We had the top and bottom of the mountain,
But they had the middle,
And we were powerless to move them.

A thumping helicopter blade,
The pulsing heart of Vietnam.
One flying over yet today,
Brings me to Southeast Asia’s realm 

A swirl of dust, then we arise
I shared the door gunner’s abode.
Snaking above the jungle’s hat,
First gazing straight into the sky,
Then quickly downward at the road
We avoid enemy attack.

Sometimes the choppers saving life.
Sometimes the choppers bringing death.
Some bearing cross of red and white.
Some baring hideous shark’s teeth.

For grunts out in the wild boonies,
Engaged in life or death assault,
The sound of choppers brought relief.
At times engaging enemies,
Or bringing medical support
A welcome boost, to ease their grief.