This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Seahorse” Down in the Dirt, v194 (the 4/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Ice that Was the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Running Out of Time the 2022 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the one-of-a-kind poetry, flash fiction, prose, artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Street Without Joy

J. Ross Archer

One week after the 1968 Tet Offensive

    I had been in Vietnam maybe fifteen minutes when a jeep driven by a captain stopped next to me and said: “Are you, Major Benett?
    I said: “Yes. But, Captain, would it be asking too much if I would like to know your freaking name and where we are going?”

xxx

    “I know this seems weird, Sir, but time is of the essence. I’ll brief you as I drive; there’s a helicopter waiting for you just outside of town. Your duty assignment is with advisory team 68, and the team is presently on the Me Chon River. Your new boss, Colonel Don Pinnington, is waiting for you. I’m his temporary driver, and all I can tell you is that he has a hot assignment that’s due now. So, I will take care of your gear and get your paper started. Don’t be concerned about that. Any questions, Sir?”
    “I wouldn’t dare, Captain.”

xxx

    “Welcome aboard, Bennett; you are just in time for a hot assignment. You are now my operations officer. There’s a weapon and ammo for you on the back seat should we run into any trouble. Here’s what I know. Saigon (Headquarters US Army Vietnam) has picked up a rumor that a North Vietnamese Division is headed south on Highway 1. They want proof before acting—that’s where we come in. You and I are going up there to look and record the exact location of any military units we see. There’s one more thing they want. They picked up a rumor that the NVA division slaughtered a sizable number of non-combatants. We’re to check that also. Since the 101 Airborne pulled out last week, our advisory team is what’s left of Americans in this neck of the woods. I figure the ride will be interesting because we will have to find our way through Hue, where there’s fighting going on between North Vietnamese troops and our Marines. Any questions?”
    “What questions could I possibly have, Sir?”
    “I like a wiseass; you and I will get along fine, Bennett. Well, here we are. My God!”

xxx

    Colonel Pennington stood up in the jeep, leaned over the side of the jeep, and vomited.
    “My God! So many bodies? There must be hundreds, older men, women, and children? They are lining both sides of the highway. My God, no! Children cut down before they have had a chance to live. How can this be—who could do such a thing?” Was it an act of reprisal or mean savagery? God, how could you allow this to happen? Why? I could not contain my emotions—I had to express them. After having done so, I began trembling all over. My delayed physical reaction to the horrible scene in front of me.
    I had tears flowing freely and felt like screaming. But, instead, I turned to Col. Pennington.
    “How the hell could this atrocity happen? This is the Twentieth Century, for heaven’s sake. How, damn it? Our troops are withdrawing; the NVA should be celebrating—they won. So, why this? Retribution?” I yelled. I was angry, shocked, and I wondered why the Lord would allow a massacre of this size to happen.
    Pennington was standing in the middle of Highway 1, just staring at the seemingly endless piles of bodies. My words seemed to have awakened him from somewhere—maybe from hell.
    An Airforce Forward Air Controller (FAC)’s voice came in loud and clear over the jeep’s radio. “Apple 6, this is Nail 42. I’m sure you can see me overhead; I estimate at least 2,000 bodies. It’s hard to tell with the bodies stacked up like that. How can you guys stand so close to them? Are you going to try for an exact counting Apple 6? Over.”
    Zurbriggen was slow in responding. “This is Apple 6. No! I do not intend to try such a thing, For God’s sake! Let them rest in peace.”Apple 6, out.
    “Roger that. This is Nail 42, Out.”
    “Come on, Bennett; let’s get the hell out of here before both of us become basket cases because of what we’ve seen. We’ve carried out our mission. Nail 42’s report will probably reach MACV Headquarters long before ours. We’re done here. Those bastards probably aren’t too far south of us now.”
    “Did you notice the number of PT-76 Tank tracks, Sir?”
    “I am now. It looks like those tracks belong to a battalion-sized unit. That means the 1st North Vietnamese Division probably passed through here—running right down Highway 1.

xxx

    That’s when I woke up. I had moved from my bedroom to the backyard at three in the morning. My pajamas were soaked in sweat, and my fingernails had left bloody imprints in the palms of my hands. I had dreamed—no, relived something that severely affected me over 53 years ago, yet the sounds and smells were authentic. I thought I had put that traumatizing experience behind me—but I had not. All war wounds are not physical, and my mental wound was a classic demonstration of PTSD. The medical community now accepts and is beginning to understand how to treat it. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is real. Before it was understood and recognized as a legitament illness, such wounds were known as invisible damage. In World War Two, the condition was known as shell shock.
    Time and counseling will never erase that horrible scene from my mind.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...