The Army Diaries by Mike Marino (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

as only he can do. "The purpose of the American soldier is not to die for his country, but to make sure the other poor bastard dies for his...." Then the Patman, Patton wanted to gas up the Wermacht tanks in a tag team match and roll into Mother Russia..and Russian weather can be a mother...just ask Napoleon...learned a valuable lesson there that Hitler forgot...Mother Russia smothers you alive...now Mike was training for tropical warfare in a country, not many had heard of.
Mike had plenty of bunk time to debunk the theory of ultimate Victory in Vietnam..point one is that we can't win. Point one, will not be point won. The Vietnamese soldier, regular and irrigular were training on the battleground itself under real time battle conditions, on the job training like working at a car wash and learning to handle the steam hose when you had never picked one up before. The steam hose now in the hands of a young Vietnamese was a Russian made rifle, auto and semi, loaded with Chekloslovakian bullets designed to rip through American flesh. We on the other hand were training under unrealistic conditions. Christ, bivouacing in six inches of snow..how much snow will we have to march through in Vietnam? If they had any ski lodges there we'd be packing a bottle of mulled wine and not a M-16.
Point two that America always forgets. The Vietnamese will be fighting on their soil to protect their way of life. We Americans for the most part are draftees, ripped from the neighborhoods of communities across the land, this land is your land, our land, all God's chillen's land. This battle would not be fought on the parade grounds of Fort Knox. Nor Ft. Lewis, in fact, not any fortification for that matter on U.S. soil. They would also be hiding in trees with booby traps orchestrating one hell of a symphonic war, while we were training to march in formation, in line, in the box, not out of the box. The Redcoats learned there lesson fighting the Continental Army and American irregulars. We forgot that lesson, and now Mike and the others were "training" for that special, spiritual evangelical moment where victory could be tasted and felt like fine cuisine. An enjoyable victorious romp under the covers expecting the orgasm of all orgasms, and instead left with a cheap blow job in a back alley by a hooker on her knees kneeling in the leftover wet on the reflecting puddled pavment left over by the weather and incontinent wino's."
Sitting in the outdoor bleachers on the firing range, it was introduction to Mr. Weapon time. "Men, (this is a direct quote, as written down later in the day in my journal) "Men, I know some of you is college edicated...well, when it comes to school, I ain't, ya'll might know a thing or two about civilian life, but ah'm (read: I am here) heah to teach ya'll whole bunches of stuff that could save your life in combat and in life later on"...whole bunches indeed. Whole bunches..of what? Banana's? Yes Sarge, you certainly have a lovely bunch of coconuts too. How to kill my grandmother with a bayonet will help me how later in life.
"This a'heah is an M-14 rifle. Not to be mistaken for a gun, it is a weapon. Call it a gun, or a rifle and you'll pay dearly. Your pecker is for jacking off and fun, the weapon is for killing, and damn, that too can be fun," he said. He then went into a diatribe of courtesy and parameters expected on the firing range. Mike and most of the others had never seen a firing range, heard a weapon discharge, or seen the damage a bullet could actually do. Lets face it, the first time on the fire line of a firing range when you've only hefted a Daisy air rifle in false childhood combat is a daunting affair. The weight of the weapon, the monster bullets, phallic in nature and the knowledge of the devastation this weaponry could cause almost made you want to leave the gravitational pull of the planet before you could actually master the weaponry and be responsible for killing someone or worse.
Mike and the others lined up on the ground, in the prone position asthey call it. Balls in the dust, elbows propping up the rifle, as a tripod steadies the hand. Then carefully peer down the gun barrel to the sight that sits as proud as a hood ornament at the point of ballistic exit. It's off, oh, maybe a degree or two, but that differential could be rectified and corrected in time. First,you had to fire at the targets placed 300 yards down the line of sight. Take steady aim, breath deeply, holding it in as though you inhaled the most potent pot on the planet. Now squinting, you squeeze the trigger, gentle, a virgins soft breast in your Saturday night back seat hands the rifle site a sweet pink nipple that finally discharges and smack, hits the target. Not bad, almost center. Dead center and another Commie gets wounded or goes down for the count as his stomach falls out onto the ground. Mike had never fired a real gun in his life. Now he kept hitting the target. Got him a marksmen's medal at the end of training. Not sharpshooter, he held back. All those squirrel hunters from the south were sharpshooters. They were good, but for them that was also bad. Their skills would land them ultimately in an infantry division headed for the Nam..marksmen like Mike had choices. Mike could type! Better than firing a gun, he was much faster firing off words on a typewriter then firing bullets and another human being. This would come in handy one day..many days in fact so he would eventually ets from the army intact, alive and on two legs.
After the firing range, it was back to the barracks, clean the weapon, eat, shower, a few cigs with the guys, then lights out...Today was a rush of sorts. Never knew he could even fire a weapon before, let alone hit a target. What would tomorrow bring. He had no idea as they never gave that information out in advance. Little did Mike or the others know that tomorrow as scheduled as fun with a gas mask day. Tears, what a gas? Teargas? What a bitch!! It's a gas, gas, gas.... Imprint

Publication Date: 01-27-2011

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