There are a lot of people mad at me, and some filled with disdain, because I write on here from the heart about what I believe, and it is not what they believe, and others who are simply afraid that I will complicate my life with needless enemies and those seeking my misfortune. There are those who are reading the series I am writing about what happened to me in Vietnam and to these and all the rest of you I have a few things to say...as usual.
I do care. I do read. I do think. I do reflect on my own risk and fears and times I'm simply wrong and regret being wrong. But, to those of you reading the Vietnam saga, know that I am still that frightened lieutenant, still that kid with the shoe button eyes, still the converted savage unwillingly given over to anthropoid rage against dying, and I still am in search of just the least shred of justice in a universe that only gives that commodity out in well hidden and well disguised micro pockets distributed among a divided humanity. Everyone I left behind as I closed the door....burning bridges lost forevermore.
I cannot go back and remake this shredded and reformed mass of vertical humanity I have become, and I can no more stop crying up into an unjust night anymore than you can willingly stop breathing. Yes, I write stories that reach people's hearts and I seem to do it with a casual ease that often promotes resentment more than adoration, but right now it is my own heart that is torn, and I am seeking to get by because I know that I can't heal it. I write of the long bitter and killing approach I made to the dreadfully deadly A Shau Valley during my 30 Days in September of the Vietnam War and now I am back on that trail every morning and night, knowing full well my country has selected to go on up to that A Shau ridge and gaze out over purple mountain's majesty before descending down into the killing fields of that valley.
Nothing I can write will assuage this feeling of preceding doom that has overcome me but I will be writing on into the night anyway.