A SS razor blade taped between your dog tags as the last resort.
A colt 45, never far from reach, locked and loaded under your head every night.
Its barrel with a touch of rust from tasting in on two many dark nights, as a quick way out.
An M14 to heavy to carry for months on end with the Radio and spare batteries, in the heat that seemed like it would never end.
Red clay mud everywhere worms in the water and your gut. Quinine every day to hide the truth of what was in your Blood.
A silent goodbye to your friends each time you or they went into the field. No, you never expected to see each other again this side of Hell or Summerlands.
Memories, so many deaths so far away, yet so close, like flies around a hot cup of hell.
TDK.
