Join the new world

I carried letters from a girl named Liz. They weren't love letters, but I was hoping, so I kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of my rucksack.She was in college when I shipped off and out.

The things we carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wrist watches, dog tags, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Q1 Rations and water. Roughly 20 pounds. Breechzone82, who was a big man and hit the wall hard, carried extra rations. In particular he liked canned cherries in heavy sauce, cooked over poundcake by the blue flame of some heat-tabs. Elmie, who was scared, carried tranquilizers until he was shot in the head outside the city of San Jose, in the first battle of California. We all carried 5 pound helmets, jackets, and trousers. Very few carried underwear. Emperor Rick carried 2-3 extra weapons and some moving tickets as precaution against ambush, before he was discharged and aimed for a political seat. Marlowe carried a diary. Because of how quickly wellness could drop in battle, we each carried a large compress bandage. Usually in the helmet for easy access. While we were confined to the south during Hurricane season, we were issued green plastic ponchos that could be raincoats or tents. 2 pounds, but worth every ounce. When Elmie was shot, we used his poncho to wrap him up, and carry him to the chopper that would take him away.

We were airborne infantry. Dropped at a moment's notice wherever combat would appear, and hiking wherever need be. To carry something was to hump it. Like I humped my love for Liz over to California after the victorious Alaska battle. It generally meant to walk.

What we carried was also partly a function of rank, partly of specialty. As first Lieutenant, I carried a compass, maps, code books, binoculars, and a .45 caliber pistol that weighed 2.9 pounds, loaded. I also carried responsibility for the lives of my men. As field medic, Muljo Gobet carried a canvas satchel filled with morphine and plasma and surgical tape, and M&M's for the worst injuries. As a machine gunner, Breechzone82 carried the Q3 weapons, the M-60 machine gun, which weighed 23 pounds. Depending on factors such as psychology and mission, we carried anywhere from 5 to 15 magazines, usually in cloth bandoliers, adding on another 8.4 pounds. Tyler Jenkins carried a slingshot. A weapon of last resort he said. As PFCs or Spec 4s, most of them were common grunts and carried the standard Q1 M-16 gas-operated Assault rifle. The weapon weighed 7.5 pounds unloaded; 8.2 with it's full clip of 20 rounds.

In addition to the three standard weapons, Q1 M-16s, Q3 M-60s, and Q5 M-79s, we carried whatever presented itself, or whatever seemed appropriate as a means of killing or staying alive. At various times, in various situations, we carried M-14s, CAR-15s, Swedish Ks, Grease guns, captured AK-47s, Chi-Coms, RPGS, Simonov carbines, black market Uzis and 66 mm LAW Tank-busters. Some carried white phosphorus grenades. Some carried CS or tear gas. We all carried fragmentation grenades. We carried all we could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things we carried.

What we carried varied by mission. When the mission took us to the mountains, we carried mosquito netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and bug juice. If a mission seemed hazardous or if it involved a place we knew to be bad, we carried all we could. On ambush, or other night missions, they carried peculiar little odds and ends. Ssuvina always took along her New Testament and a pair of moccasins for silence. Cheesebreath carried night-sight vitamins high in carotene. Tyler carried his slingshot; Ammo, he claimed, would never be a problem. Until he was shot, Elmie carried the starlight scope, which weighed 6.3 pounds with its aluminum case. Breechzone82 carried his girlfriend's pantyhose wrapped around his neck as a comforter. We all carried ghosts. When the dark came, we would move out single file across the meadows and plains to our ambush coordinates, quietly set up our claymores and spend the night waiting.

Other missions were more complicated. After Iran's spectacular blunder against the Canadians in September, it was our mission to finish the battle, to search out and destroy the underground and ensure victory in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories. Most often before sealing the tunnels we were required by high command to search them, which was considered bad news. Because he was a big man, Breechzone was excused from tunnel duty. The others would draw numbers. Before Elmie died there were 15 men in the platoon, and whoever drew the number 15 would strip off his gear and crawl in headfirst with a flashlight and my .45-caliber pistol. We would sit down or kneel, not facing the hole, listening to the ground beneath us and imagining cobwebs and ghosts, whatever was down there. The tunnel walls squeezing in, the flashlight seeming so very heavy, and how it was truly tunnel vision in the most literal sense. You found yourself wondering odd things: Will your flashlight go dead? Do rats carry rabies? If you screamed, how far would the sound carry? Would your buddies hear it? Would they have the courage to drag you out? In some respects, though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination is a killer.

The resources were stunning. Sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored eggs for Easter. It was the Great American war chest, the fruits of science, the smokestacks, the canneries. The arsenals. For all the ambiguities of Greece or Turkey or Romania or Russia, Indonesia or Hungary, there was at least the single certainty that we would always have things to carry.

On the morning after Elmie died, I burned those letters.