August 1969

Darkness surrounded him.

The bush was so dense he couldn't see even if it were light enough to. There was silence. Not even the sound of those annoying crickets. It was so hot he could feel the sweat dripping down his neck. He moved forward, slowly, quietly. Every muscle tense, ready to spring into action. His eyes darted from left to right, watching for any sign that he'd been spotted.

And there was the smell. Always the smell. Not the smell of the bush or the heat, but the smell of burnt flesh, human decay. He couldn't look back to where the smell originated. He had to keep his eyes forward. But he knew that what lay behind him was horrific.

His platoon had been accompanying another. They had received 'sure' information about a group of Vietnamese in the area who were suspected of harbouring weapons for the Viet Cong. The two platoons had been ordered to seek out the group and destroy the weapons. Just another day at the office. Or so they had thought. They had barely made it to the edge of the village when they were hit by fire from all around. The information had been a plant in order to take out as many soldiers as possible.

He couldn't quiet the screams in his head. Screams of his friends as they were cut down without mercy. It had been chaotic and noisy, and then there had been silence. The silence had scared him more than the screams. Then there was nothing but the smell. He knew that he had to move or risk being caught alive, a fate worse than death. He had slowly moved backwards to where his platoon had entered the outskirts of the village. As soon as he was sure he hadn't been spotted, he started walking back to the drop zone, in hopes that the message to their air team had gotten through. If he could make it to the clearing, he may have a chance of being spotted by a Huey.

Finally making it to the edge of the clearing, he lay on the ground and watched. And waited. And listened.

He hated this place. Hated the fact that he had been here for nearly two years. He especially hated the fact that in those two years he had killed, seen killings, and seen things no man should have to endure. He now knew the absolute worst of human nature. There were whispers in his troop that this war was one they couldn't win. His men had started to openly ask why they were here, what good could they still do? Every time they seemed to gain ground, they lost much more in the form of good men, brave warriors. He sighed. He had kept his opinions to himself; after all, it was his job to build moral not shake it. But even he had to admit that this war was getting … old.

A sound alerted him. So minute that another man wouldn't have heard it, yet he knew exactly what it was. He raised his head just enough to see his salvation. A Huey was bearing down on his position, it's gunman searching the area for signs of life. He moved the short distance to the clearing, all the while watching his surroundings. His movements hampered by the bullets in his thigh and ankle. The gunman signalled to him that they had seen him. The pilot eased the Huey to a hover, just low enough for him to jump aboard. Once on the chopper, he looked back out over the jungle. Where were his men? The gunman yelled, "Are you it?" 'No', he replied. There are others, there has to be. Any moment now, they would break through the bush. 'Come on' he whispered.

Suddenly a volley of gunfire alerted all on the chopper that they had been spotted. The pilot yelled to his gunman "That's it, we've been here too long. We've got to go"

The gunman started returning fire. The chopper lifted up. The pilot expertly moved them out of harms way. Before long they were on their way back to base.

During the pandemonium, no one on board noticed a solider breaking through the bush. He waved frantically. Gunfire surrounded him, yet he continued to try to catch the choppers attention. No one saw him. His blood ran cold as he watched the Huey fly off.

More gunfire had him ducking for cover. He looked up to see a line of men coming slowly towards him. He'd been spotted. There was no hope now.

Taking his gun, he stood tall and fired …

1985

"Lukas. K. Duke! Are you listening to me?"

Luke jumped at the sharp sound of his Uncle Jesse's voice. He glanced around, recalling that he was supposed to be helping sort firewood.

"Sorry Jesse," he smiled. "Guess I was lost in thought"

Jesse grinned thoughtfully. "Must have been some thought. I was talking loud enough for that Van Gough painter fellow to hear me"

Luke frowned. "Jesse, he's dead, not to mention missing an ear"

"My point exactly" Jesse hooted. He slapped Luke on the back. "Come on son, I think we've done enough to earn a beer or two. You pack up that pile of wood there and I'll meet you in the kitchen"

"Okay" Luke agreed.

A while later, he reflected on the remnants of the nightmare that had haunted his sleep the night before. He never dreamed about Vietnam. He'd considered himself one of the very few lucky ones. Yet, lately, he'd been plagued by memories. Things he thought he had left in the jungle now appeared in his dreams. Why now? he wondered, as he put his shirt back on. What could have triggered the nightmares?

He knew many former soldiers who struggled day and night with emotions no one could ever truly understand. A lot of what they had experienced they would never reveal. Luke himself had seen too much over there, learnt things he didn't need to know. It was the kind of world a young man from a small farm should never be introduced to.

Like so many before him, Luke had left a boy and come back a man. A man much more worldly-wise, much more cynical, much more harder. He had revealed very little about his two tours of duty with the Marines. 26 months of sheer hell had been boxed up with a tightly controlled lid.

Now, it seemed, the lid was starting to pry loose.