The Steel Pot, Lucky Strike and a Ronson...

On the outskirts of Pleiku, July, 1965

     The steel pot was first to come off. It fell, upside down, to the mud at his feet. There was a brief respite in the monsoon rains that inundated the rice lands and the jungle. It was steamy. Not steamy like the river valley of St. Louis. This was fresh hell. Propping his M-16 against a rock, he took a knee in the baby shit mud. The entire world smelled terrible. There would never be a stench as bad as Vietnam mud. It would remain in his nostrils forever, he thought. If he has a "forever." 

            Above, the sun was a glaring, white disk amid the drenching heat waving from this cursed land. The soldier covered his face with his hand. The sweat in his eyes stung. Unscrewing the cap from his canteen, he poured some tepid liquid into his open palm, and splashed it across his face. A second swallow temporarily slaked his burning thirst.

            One cigarette remained in his chest pocket. Placing it between his cracked lips, he fished out his Ronson lighter and inhaled a deep lungful of sweet American tobacco. Running a hand through his hair, he suffered a brief moment, what he called “lightening thoughts,” remembering Suzanne doing that very thing, her breath warm against his neck, her lips kissing his cheek, his ear. Those were dangerous memories, he considered. Memories like that could get you killed. Returned to his wife in a metal case with a draped flag. No... time for memories later. For the present, enjoy the Lucky Strike dangling between his lips. Take a good draw on the smoke. And another, and another. His Ronson, he considered, looked like a tiny metal coffin. He thumbed the top down with its characteristic "ting."

            High above in the slate grey sky, the distant roar of many jet engines penetrated his thoughts. Rolling Thunder on the way to Hanoi. Contrails unzipping the heavens. He wondered if those air crews got tired. Were thirsty. Aching to get home to their Suzannes.

            July, 1965. Short. He’d been in-country over ten months. He was in for thirteen. Another long pull on the Lucky Strike, followed by a fit of coughing. Sgt. Letterman glanced at him, missing nothing from his “chicks.” Sergeant Letterman's company. The soldier gave a quick nod to the man with three up and three down. He was okay. Not going to be a problem. When they arrived at the outskirt of the village they would torch, Letterman did not need someone erupting into a coughing jag and give them away. The sergeant returned the nod, more slowly. A warning.

            The soldier finished the cigarette, field stripped the butt, and buried it in a shallow “tobacco grave” at his feet.

            The steel pot weighed a ton. Come St. Louis he vowed to never again wear so much as a hat. Let the wind sift his hair. Suzanne kiss his lips.

            Only twenty-two, last month. He rose to his feet, placing his steel pot on his head, M-16 cradled in his right arm. The company rose quietly, the column stepping into place, each several feet from the next "chick."

           That was the last of his cigs. There were more in a buddy's pocket. No problem.

The  soldier considered the sun would eventually slide to earth. This day was going to end. So would the war, with or without his help. St. Louis was a real place, and he was going to get off that jet, embrace that Missouri tarmac and lay a kiss on that damned concrete. He vowed he never, never ever was going to leave the good 'ol USA. And he was going to buy an entire carton of Lucky Strikes!      

            The tall Elephant Grass waved in the late afternoon breeze. Nobody could tell that a little bit ago, thirty three American soldiers squatted here, and one lit a smoke, rubbed his eyes, heaved his ribs in a coughing fit, and grabbed his weapon, departing the way he came. Heavily. Weary. Scared. Empty.

           Most returned to their Suzannes. Many fought to forget. Most never did. Some struggled with their demons. Most continued into productive, pleasant lives. They stood to salute the flag when it passed on Memorial Day. They greyed and toyed with grandchildren. Others were reduced to engravings on a shiny black wall. Suzanne would go to find her soldiers name, and do a pencil rub to frame and place above the hearth in her St. Louis home. She cried out all her tears. But there would always be a breath, a sigh she had saved for her soldier's missing neck and ear, the absent lips of her dear, dead soldier. They sent all his effects. A Ronson cigarette lighter sat on the mantle under her rubbing of his name. It would remain there until her grandchildren fondled it, learning it was "grandpops" from Vietnam. It was all they had of him. Not even a memory. Just a little, steel Ronson lighter. Looking much like the steel coffin they returned of all they could find of him.

          On that long-ago afternoon, the soldier, lost in the haze, was ultimately lost to his Suzanne and lost in that damned bloody god forsaken war.