Cherry- A Vietnam Story

Note: The morals and views of the character are simply the character's. This story is told from two prospectives, Pvt. Cooke is against the war and Pvt. Boyle is for the war.

Part 1- Pvt. Leonard Cooke

173rd Airborne Brigade, Bravo Company 4/503

October 31, 1967

Call me ignorant. Call me blind. Call me nothing but a naive Negro who has no comprehension of the “noble sacrifice” we are making against communism. But fuck the president and fuck the dumb-ass supporters of this waste of time, money, and lives. Communism. What threat would a small country like Vietnam have against the U.S.? Who do we think we are? We are worried about another country when my black father and white mother were shunned simply for being together. Why am I saying we? Them. They say I’m a citizen of America, but they treat me like I’m a burden. I don’t know where I stand anymore, but my patriotism is wearing thin. First they say I can’t go to the same school that most of my friends go to, then I’m thrown in jail for drinking out of the wrong water fountain, then in order to stay out of jail, I’m sent miles away to fight a war I know little about. Man, I know all I know about ‘Nam from Kimberly’s liberal outbursts. I guess I should have paid less attention to boxing and more of the news. But hell, all I want to do is survive. I’m not a person anymore. All I am is a cherry.

Cherry is the term all the grunts use for the new recruits arriving in this godforsaken place. Once you complete your first tour of duty, you bust your cherry. I’ve been here for a couple of days, and I’m already on my first “battle” or “mission”. I don’t know, nor care what it’s called. The point is I’m going to have to shoot to save my own scrawny ass. I might have to take a life.

Jackson looks me square in my brown eyes, “You okay, Cherry?”

It takes me awhile to answer. I’m nervous as hell. “Yeah. I’m just collecting myself, Rebel Roy,”

The only friend I’ve made here was Roy Jackson. His father was a Klan member. Roy wasn’t like that. When all the other white trash giggled about killing minorities, Hispanics, blacks, and even VC, Roy was always hittin the bong with Jefferson and Redding, former Black Panther Party members (the group of black militants using violent protest).

Roy pats me on the shoulder and gives out a powerful chuckle, “Doin’ better than I did, I tell you what. I shat my pants,”

I force a weary smile. Rebel Roy was a hell of a lot tougher than I was. This is not a good sign.

We march through the jungle. A humid, sticky, miserable, bug infested, funky-ass jungle. Half the time I’m swatting at the mosquitoes, dragonflies, and other bugs I haven’t even seen or heard about before. I stop dead in my footsteps. The silver locket on a golden chain ceases to swing about my neck. I open the locket to find a picture of Kimberly. Her curly, brown hair that sways beautifully in the wind, her deep hazel eyes that remind me of a snowy mountain. I get all the details that I need to continue forward. My hands are still shaking, but I do a good job to keep them firmly placed on my weapon. M16, I think that’s what it’s called. I never really paid attention to the squad leader.

I hear Jenkins, one of those pieces of white trash with dreams of killing foreigners. Or as they say, “Ferners”. Jenkins is rubbing his right hand vigorously on another Cherry’s head. His way of encouraging him. Now I’m no killer. Although I can stand the sight of violence, I’m no killer. But what Jenkins says next seriously makes me want to frag his ass, “You gonna feel a lot better once you get that Gook meat on your blade. Oh-shit-shit-shit-shit! You gonna feel like a real man!”

The sick fucker was enjoying every moment of this. Unbelievable. I’m not one of those emotional or over compassionate kind of guys, but even I can’t help but wince at the fact that living people actually think like that.

A combination of dirt, bugs, leaves, and tree roots cover the ground. This whole time my eyes were mainly focused on the ground. VC booby traps. Everywhere. That made me think even more. On the subject of why I’m here. Why is America here? The Vietcong were crazy bastards. If someone wants you to leave their country that bad you take the hint and get the hell out of dodge.

“Don’t listen to that inbred hick!” I hear a shout from Jefferson, whose way in front of us. “It don’t never get bet-” the cracking of a tree branch goes off. A huge sound tears through the humid, moist air. The wet sounds of something tearing flesh go through my ears. Half the soldier look arouns with their weapons drawn. Everyone else runs ahead to see the scene. Jefferson’s large, dark, muscular frame stood limp. A large, sharp stick about a quarter of a meter wide is impaled in Jefferson’s chest. I turn my head away from the gruesome sight. My gut tightens. I want to vomit.

Roy walks up toward Jefferson. No words were spoken. Roy took aim at Jefferson, now choking on his own blood. I close my eyes tight. A single shot tears the afternoon air.

Ten minutes later we approach a village. A community of small shacks. Our squad leader tells us something, but I don’t pay it much attention. I just follow Roy as the group splits up. We enter a hut occupied by a young woman who‘s around twenty. Me, Roy, Jenkins, and Guzo. Guzo, a.k.a Bronx does the talking in his New York accent, which sounds funny as hell in Vietnamese. The only word I understand is Vietcong.

She replies in a hasty, get the fuck out of here voice. Her husband approaches and starts shouting the same, angry gibberish. Bronx shouts back, then everything gets fucked up. Jenkins decides to get a little trigger happy. He fires two rounds into the man’s chest. He approaches the wife, who is now crying. “VIETCONG, YOU STUPID GOOK! VC! VC!”

He grabs the woman an throws her violently to the ground. Her crying gets louder and louder. Jenkins starts to take off his pants, but when the woman kicks him in the groin he pulls them back up. Roy and Bronx just fucking stand there telling him to stop, they don’t bother to take action, so Jenkins takes aim at the crying woman. Four rounds. Four rounds pierce the miserable the air. Jenkins falls to the ground. Half of his head obliterated. Smoke slowly creeps out of the barrel of my weapon. My hands start to shake. The woman stops crying and looks at me. Tears slowly roll from my eyes. I hold back as hard as I can, but two tears, one from each eye, stroll down my face.

Rebel Roy pats me on the back, while Guzo helps the woman to her feet. After she’s fresh on her feet, Bronx kneels by the husband’s side. What he says next relives me. “Only one round hit him. Barley grazed his shoulder. The shock probably knocked him unconscious,”

Damn, I could of swore that the rounds hit him, the way he fell.

No VC. We left the village. No one else was harmed besides good old Jenkins, whose murder I get over so quickly that I start to question whether or not I’m a psycho. He deserved it though right? He was going to rape her. I did what anyone with a conscience would do, right?

Bronx tells everyone that the heat must have got to Jenkins’s head. He told that he was firing at us, and we merely defended ourselves. Roy tells me I did the right thing as we return to base.

Twilight cuts across the sky as we make our way back to camp. The majestic view of purple, orange, and crimson tell me to keep moving on. That no matter how bad things are, beauty, grace, and innocence is somewhere out there. And once all the hell is over, those thing will become clear. I know it’s a little queer. But the twilight gives me a burst of hope in nothing but rough times.