FNG

FNG

 

He is on his way to death-by-heat-stroke,

cooking from inside out, thermostat busted

by fucking stress, dirty combat, too many pounds.

 

A Navy corpsman—the Marine Corps            has always used

the Navy take care of its wounded[1]—twice our weight,

humping with us, south of Khe Sanh, beneath 130-degree steel sky.

 

Medivac chopper is inbound to grab his fat-boy body,

but now he needs water—all available water—

to try to kick his temperature off its thousand-meter hilltop.

 

All of us are dry—deadly, armed, and dying for even filthy,

pissed-in water, but have to pour what little we have

on this Fucking New Guy—who should never have been with us.

 

An officer yells: Bagwell! Get all the full canteens you can find!  I float

a hundred or so yards back, along the hot ghostly jungle trail, littered

with our combat debris, hallucinating the taste of fresh cool water.

 

 

I grab all the canteens I can find—

including my own.  I swallow my fill, bloat my belly.

I flutter back and watch the rest run down the sagging, fat, flesh.

 

For seconds, the red dirt darkens, and then it is dry again.

I stole water from a dying human being:

I live with my choice daily.

 

Fucking new guy.

Fucking me.

Fucking thirst.

Fucking war.


[1] The Marine Corps does not have chaplains or medical staff, using Navy officers and enlisted sailors for these roles.

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