LIGHT AND DARK

                                  GENESIS FOR THE INFANTRY
And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.
                              Chapter One, Genesis
                                                              DAY
      Kipling said the East was where the dawn came up like thunder-and it does-but it makes a subtle entrance. To the fitfully sleeping soldiers in the paddy, draped in rain ponchos that created as much internal moisture as they prevented in the dank humidity and resting on tilted helmets, the dawn makes a quiet but clear appearance. Suddenly, they are revealed to each other as well as the land that surrounds them. Between the first hint of the dawn and its thunderous appearance, hardly a moment in time passes but that moment is as quiet and momentarily subtle as a cat crossing a deep carpet. The puffy ochre and white clouds dissipate the bright blue sky as the ruby red and shimmering gold of the emerging sun slowly crosses the cusp of the horizon. Under the lip of the rice stubble-rimmed dike, the darkness quickly slinks away into blinding light. The short green stems of grass glisten and shine with dew-to quickly evaporate as the soporific heat tendrils quickly encompass the soldiers-now stirring in the quickening broad light. The ponchos are dew covered, swept aside and quickly the moisture of the humid new day begins to form on exposed skin. The first stirrings of a deployed Infantry unit begin.

      The platoon had moved into the position the previous night having emerged from the nearby jungle where it had left its larger body. The population of the several villages demarking the line between jungle and paddy were the subjects of suspicion. Interception of infiltration of VC elements between villages and into their deeper sanctuaries within the dense green was the objective. The unit, a platoon, had a mix of personnel designed for this task. There was a dog team and two Kit Carson scouts-galvanized ex-VC POW’s that chose the other side and now provided local insights and translational services for the language and culturally challenged Americans. They were there to serve a purpose, but never really trusted. Sleep had been a sporadic blessing for all but the dog and the KC scouts-all of whom could sense danger better than their hosts. The dog stirred from under his handler’s arm pit, rose on all fours and coughed-as if warning of the coming light. The platoon began to awake.

      The mind-shrouding residue of hasty sleep quickly dissipated as eyes searched past the immediate mud enclosure and focused on the various points of the compass-an animal alertness and wary sensing begins to work within each resident. The glistening cold metal of their weapons seeks the new shafts of light and heat, quickly drying the evening’s dew to expose the shiny polish of worn metal and light oil. Eyes search past the weapons to seek any sign of concern. In the preternatural habits of soldiers in combat, they dial in their senses, looking for movement or sounds past their gunsights to the horizon. The animal instincts, deeply resident within the group, begin to again play their leading role.

      In the distance at several points of the compass, across the dikes and silhouetted against the dark green of the all-encompassing jungle, the small village thatch glows and reflects the long light of the just emerging sun. The scouts, attenuated to the rhythm of the area and well-acquainted with the habits of this and other similar villages, now move quietly and in full view toward the inhabitants. They will conduct a mental reconnaissance and provide some assessment to the platoon leader regarding the status of the village. They may also barter for fruit, rice and dried fish if available. C rations, though filling, do not fulfill certain ethnic cravings. For the soldiers, it’s always a matter of eating the most tasteful of what bad selections are on hand and the Scouts will gather some of the choicer C rations in trade later.

      As they cross the open fields with the long golden shafts of light demarking their progress, they see the small tendrils of wispy blue smoke emerge by each house as the daily regimen of local life unfolds. They had been born in a similar place and felt more at home here than in the grossly urbanized and dirt-scarred camps of the Americans. They quietly and with polite nods to the first family encountered, walk to the rear of the hut where the smoke is sourced.

      The female of the house squats in the dirt yard behind the house and fans a small fire of rice straw and split bamboo. She is tiny by Western standards and is wearing a cone shaped straw hat with her jet black hair tied underneath. Her black silk pants come to her mid-calf, exposing mottled ivory and mud colored legs. She is wearing foam flip flops that expose the unusually wide spacing between toes, the nails being well worn to a crescent shape to the quicks. A small child paws at the ground, naked from the waist down-the common solution for a land where diapers are unknown. Less than a dozen feet away, several chickens and small hatchlings fitfully peck for sustenance. A large black pig stirs lazily in a mud ooz filled pen, grunts and examines a handful of greens and rice tailings the woman proffered. Next to the family water buffalo, he is their most valued livestock the family possesses.

      Satisfied at the state of the fire, she rises to her feet and moves to several wire cages next to the thatch walls. She reaches into the top of one and grabs a large brownish black rat by the tail and lifts it out of the cage. She deftly strikes the head with a strong stick and while it is still shaking in its death throes, she tosses it neatly on the fire. She is careful to leave the tail clear of the fire so she can turn the rat over once the fire devours the fur on each side. Finally, she stirs embers over the entire corpse and waits for the proper level of doneness. Her family gathers around the embers, all in the traditional deep knee squat-unmanageable and unobtainable to a Westerner, chopsticks in hand in anticipation of breakfast.

      While this unfolds, a man steps to the concrete lip of the family well and extracts a bucket. Wearing only loose Ghandi-like shorts, he pours the water over himself and repeats several times. Concluding his ablutions, he retreats to a large log near the fire and extracts a fat hand rolled cigarette from a mesh basket next to him. The contents are not tobacco but a form of leaf he has extracted from the nearby jungle since he was a small boy following his father. Real tobacco is a rare and expensive luxury-a point the scouts will use to advantage in their negotiations. He slowly inhales and exhales allowing the smoke to encapsulate the largest covey of mosquitos now forming around him. The scouts engage him in a casual conversation with smiles and low laughter and offer him a pack of Lucky Strikes-far superior to the local pink papered Ruby Queens the Vietnamese army is issued. The man accepts them with both hands extended and a polite short nod. As is the local custom, proffering only a single hand would show less than full appreciation for the gift.

      The odor of this activity begins to course over the paddies toward the soldiers laagered there. It is a sharp mix of fetid garbage, wet burning thatch, harsh smoke and the tendrils of dew drying in the now intense Eastern sun. The silent thunderous sunrise has now developed into the full searing sun of the season, quickly punishing everyone under it. It flares the nostrils with its unfamiliar odor-yet an odor the soldiers smell on a daily basis as they skirt or pass through the scattered villages. The platoon leader notes the point where the scouts disappeared from view while orienting his map.

      The village will be scrutinized and swept. Only in the rare instance of an engagement from within will it be harmed. The disappeared VC will have to return at some time and the farmers have the sweetest pineapples and most intensely flavored bananas experienced. Cash and cigarettes carry a great deal of weight. In this environment, small things mean a lot. Small things are all these villagers have but they are unique and welcome and the trade favors all parties.
The soldiers light cigarettes and ignite their heat tablets under C ration coffee cans-as much to initiate their day as to suppress the encroaching odors.

     Everything swirls together in a miasma of visions and odors that marks another morning and another day’s venture into the theatre of mortality, luck and chance. The few without heat tabs, use small balls of C-4, rolled in their fingers to remove any air pockets, then set one under the canteen cup. It burns with an intense white flame and quickly heats the water. The squad leaders will insure that the C4 supply is surplus to the Claymore’s and tree-cutting loads that may soon be necessary.

      Poncho’s are laid out to quickly dry. The dew on the black plastic arm guards of the M16’s quickly dissipates as the soldiers alternately sip coffee, pull on their cigarettes and pack their rucksacks. The platoon leader sits on the edge of the paddy dike using the mud berm as a back brace. Intently looking down at an open map case, handset implanted in an ear, he alternates his free hand between a cigarette and an empty can that once held a pecan roll and now sloshes with C ration coffee. He makes a mark on his map, returns the handset to his companion and folds the map. He looks toward the thatch huts in the thin distance and notes the multiple small tendrils of blue-white smoke rising in straight columns and disappearing in the increasingly bright cobalt sky. Beyond, he scans the deep green of the distant jungle, knowing but not seeing others of his element working for a common purpose. The distant sound of a Huey beats a tone but its presence is lost in the now energized moisture of the far blue horizon.

      Just beyond the paddies, morning in the deep green is a more ephemeral thing. Light is a subtle visitor that comes with hints rather than a crash. Form and shape evolve to vision quietly almost like sleep becomes wakefulness. If not stirred by local leadership, each shadowy form of soldier stirs to alertness and begins his daily routine. Small soldier noises are lost and dissipated into the many layered organic matter of the jungle. Less than a dozen meters outside the perimeter, all is in silence less the occasional bird calls and scattered lizards engaging in territorial disputes.

      The intrusive passerby’s seldom see any form of wildlife though it is ubiquitous and constantly watching them. The birds flee quickly with loud squawks and flapping wings. The insects lay reclusive under the thick humus and undersides of leaves to emerge only upon passage or after darkness falls. The monkeys keep watch from the highest canopies moving ahead or to the side of the moving soldiers below. Very rarely, but often enough to be noted, a snake or deer may suddenly be discovered evoking immediate violation of noise discipline. The one form of life that always appears if in the area are leeches. As soon as they detect the chemicals of mammals-they move in waves across the jungle floor toward the source of a potential blood meal and spawn. The small body tubes waver above the leaves as they move toward their prey. The soldiers spray the ground with Pyrethrum and move quickly and then conduct mutual body checks for intruders. Next to the real enemy, these are the most feared and disliked within the soldier panoply.

      The deep fog that had enveloped the green slowly rises as the new-found sun penetrates the sky but not the canopy below. The difference between fog and clear is largely unseen by the occupants below-both human and otherwise. All have been wrapped in a thick moist cottony blanket but it had anestithized the senses of those residing within its shrouds.

      Moisture is ubiquitous in this environment and ponchos are packed wet and slimed with mud. Mud that matches the streaks and color marking every uniform and piece of equipment. Here, morning neither provides a drying warmth or a startling brightness, only a subtle marker indicating a new day bearing just a slightly lighter blanket of gloom than the dark.

     Skin is moist and wrinkled from the constant damp. Skin cells erode from friction points and create small chains of tiny white color rings along necks and wrists. Fingers wet cigarette paper as the glow of the first puff illuminates the narrow gallery of root structures by each person’s positions. Small glimpses of a blue flame can be discerned with the shapeless forms as heat tabs brew morning coffee-the light sheltered from external vision by the massive tree buttresses acting as nature’s foxholes. Concurrently, boots may be pulled off, socks removed and the ash-white thickly calloused feet wiped with a towel and allowed to enjoy the free air for a moment.

      Slowly, the shapes become discernible as distinct movements unfold. Rucksacks are packed, rifles are leaned along the tree matter and the soldiers sit upright looking out, quietly smoking and eating their choice for the morning ration.

      As with his paddy companion, the platoon leader, back to a tree, listens to the radio handset with his map on his lap and a free hand enjoying the warmth of the proffered instant coffee container-this one heated by his radio operator using a marble-sized piece of C4 which had burned with an intense yellow-white light, obviating the need for the officer to use his flashlight as he listened. He checks the smoke from the C-4 mindful that the volatility creates a deadly gas-a lesson several of his soldiers learned in a small cramped bunker a week before.
With a glance of the watch, leaders in both locations make silent gestures and their charges raise their rifles and rucksacks and begin to move toward common cause. Morning had arrived and another’s day’s work had begun to unfold. The paddy platoon moved quietly but with purpose toward the village and a reconciliation with the scouts. The jungle and the paddy elements would trade places over the course of the day but out of sight of each other. Everyone hoped for another morning.
                                                                     NIGHT
      Along the open paddies and fields, night creeps upon day, subtly smothering the light in predictable intervals. In the deep green and tangled web of the jungle, its appearance is more subtle and quite sudden. Night always comes first to the jungle, the growth multiplying the obscuration of the declining sun. How soldiers manage it depends upon where they are.

      The open vistas of the vast flat and fertile fields lend themselves to the celestial theatrics of the Eastern sunset. Initially a moving melted gold to crimson ball on the horizon, it settles into diminishing vision. The tall cumulous thunder clouds reflect the opalescent quicksilvers and golden ambers of the bending shafts of light. Dashes of crimson, vermillion and polished bronze waver and dance among the cumulus. Suddenly, light becomes burnt umber, then a dusty haze and then dark. Stars begin to appear and the air takes on a thick clarity missing in the day. Soldiers settle into a slower but disciplined series of habits.

      The platoon leader notes his watch and begins to make mental notes regarding his territory an hour before darkness limits his options. A small field with somewhat higher dikes than others catches his eye. The field is sufficient in size to occupy his element and it is far enough away to avoid transients but close enough to discern them through night vision equipment should they move toward the village nearby.

      A second option, closer to the village and beside a worn path, also beckons should he choose a more aggressive approach to managing infiltration. Here, a portion of the jungle would guard his back and hide the body of troops. It would also require a very clandestine occupation under the most silent of conditions. In this environment, his target is at least as competent as he. Dark offers few choices and risk is multiplied. He asks his Kit Carson scouts for advice and they, in a traditional Asian manner avoid a direct definitive answer but suggest observing, not occupying the village-perhaps a means to lessen their own risk..
In the rapidly descending dark and just before the village becomes obscure, he halts his unit and signals the halt for the night. Several NCO’s fan out and begin quietly placing their personnel in positions along the low dike walls and send out pairs to emplace the trip wires and claymores a single paddy field away. The leader moves to the center of the paddy rectangle and coalesces with his dog team, the Kit Carson scouts and his radio operator. Less than twenty feet away, the platoon sergeant and medic form another internal position in the opposite direction. As the dark quickly descends, the unit settles into silence and the small shrouded activities of soldiers at rest.

      Within the jungle, the partnered leader notes the time and the approximate onset of darkness-End of Evening Nautical Twilight (EENT) by the military lexicon. He knows he needs a good thirty minutes to achieve a decent defensible position as well as perform all the many small housekeeping duties that a nighttime halt requires. These range from eating to relieving to placing out the claymores and trip flares as well as marking the position for artillery protective fires. As part of the nightly routine, the platoon leader establishes his artillery defensive targets (DT’s). Their registration breaks the deep quiet of the perimeter and raises shrieks and protests from the disturbed wildlife but also provides a sense of comfort to the unit.

      Day and night each have their own required tasks and necessities established over time and experience. Violate or ignore any of them and the unit is placed in some degree of peril-depending upon chance combined with the acuity of the adversary. No place is safe for the infantry in war. Everyone appreciates the rules and the necessity for compliance to provide a reasonable opportunity to see the next day.

      A few gestures are made with sweeping arm motions and the troops begin to disperse in disciplined patterns to the cardinal directions. With equally silent gestures, they take off their rucksacks, placed them in front of themselves and lay their weapons across the outer pockets so the handguard is wedged between the top and the center pocket looking outward. Some reach into their rucksacks and extract a variety of esoteric equipment-moving in pairs just to the line of sight of the new perimeter.

      Magazines are laid beside the weapons. The quantity in each is less than the 20 or 30 round capacities as they have learned that full magazines tend to jam and misfeed. Better to have less rounds that work when needed than a full magazine that doesn’t.

      The Thumper, the M79 grenade launcher, a prized tool in a close-in fight, is broken open at the breech and an HE round inserted. Next to it are carefully placed HE and canister rounds-the former round-tipped and the latter flat-headed. Feel will dictate the round of choice when the situation becomes tense.

      Each member has specific tasks to fulfil and a rote discipline learned over time, experience and coaching. Each depends on his brothers to insure collective safety in moments of mortal need. This is a self-disciplining machine and time has insured the parts meshed and functioned with minimal supervision. Self-preservation means organizational preservation. When a situation becomes perilous, as is not uncommon, there are neither half-measures or excuses. The members see the dawn or they don’t. Life is simple at the cutting edge.
Claymores are aligned along the several trails leading into the position and arming devices activated. Some of these are of a clever configuration reflecting the time and ingenuity of individuals conversant in the nuances of enemy discovery techniques. The most fiendishly clever involved some form of electrical contact trigger mechanism but in the rainy season, these devices have to be managed with extreme caution as an errant move in a driving rain could immolate the designer.

      As with the other tasks of the perimeter, there is a procedure to setting up claymores. This is somewhat of an arcane art but learned over time and hard experience. The two pairs of scissor legs at the base are extended and the curved face of the mine pointed toward the desired impact point. The legs are gently planted into the ground while sighting over the center top of the mine. Satisfied with placement and basic camouflage, a blasting cap is placed in the well and the top screwed tightly. The detonating wire is carefully laid under the detritus of the floor and carried back to the perimeter where it is attached to a rucksack or weapon. The arming plastic clacker is then attached once all friendlies are inside the perimeter. The soldier responsible for this device maintain a close watch on the small white stripe or dot he affixed to the back of the mine. Should it disappear, he knows the enemy has discovered it and detonation may be a suicidal act. The standard motto when watching the white is to “Snap if shaking.”

      Should the unit find a particularly well-used trail-High Speed Hard pack- a squad leader may create a claymore ambush independent of the perimeter defenses. Rigging several claymores together with det cord and with several triggering traps, the configuration is designed to activate on enemy passage regardless of trail direction. These are usually covered by an artillery target to enhance the effect.

      Trip flares are carefully arranged near the claymore’s with several trip wires extended just barely off of the ground. Satisfied with the nightly devil’s handiwork, the installers return to positions behind their rucksacks. In some cases, the unit will dig small positions-in others, deeper within clearly enemy territory, the unit may choose to neither fire DT’s or dig in not wishing to advertise position by the collective noises of digging.

      Individuals reach into a pants cargo pocket and extract a bag of day long wetted patrol ration or quietly open a can of C rations with the opener ubiquitous on every soldier’s neck chain-being careful to flip aside the taped dog tags to preserve silence. Others just drink quietly from a canteen or furtively smoke with the butt less than an inch from the ground-its orange red tip hidden by the bulk of the rucksack-the bluish smoke moving in small tendrils to the canopy above.

      As the quiet of the night and position descend, nature’s light show begins. In the paddies, it is reflective in nature. Distant amber glows from village fires and the kerosene lamps of thatched interiors-in some cases this is overwhelmed by the bright ambient glow of a major urban area just beyond the horizon. In other directions, stygian darkness and the emerging sparks of stars shimmer in the clear night air. Occasionally, just on the horizon, bright yellow green bulbs of a distant flare emerge, the descent marked by a small swirl of smoke until the glow darkens into nothingness. In some cases, the flares are accentuated by the occasional green or red tracer marking the combatant’s engagement. Some form of light is a constant item in the flat open fields.

      The jungle is an entirely different matter. All-encompassing molasses thick darkness marks this environment. It descends with a rush and is almost indiscernible in its quick but profound rush. Everything slows in the world as the Infantry attempt to manage its internal life cycle issues by feel and sound rather than sight. While one sense is diminished, others come to the fore.
Smells became more pronounced in the dark as other less used senses dominate. If there has been a sudden fire fight or artillery support, the smell of cordite hangs in the damp fetid air. It is sharp and distinct as is the focus of fear and anxiety in each man’s eye just moments before. The soft rotting organic material smells ancient like a just opened tomb. If the tiger had been recently unkind, blood, though now unseen, would have a rank odor of its own. On the fingers, it is sticky and has collected the detritus of the position but its origin is instantly known to the person perhaps holding a C ration can to his mouth. It doesn’t help the flavor.

      In position and close to the ground, soldiers began to see and sense the previously invisible. Phosphors began to radiate green and amber twinkles. The movement of an insect or small reptile lights the leaf matter and a momentary trail can be seen. Above, some insects gather and communicate with quick green flashes within the foliage. Nature’s light show will continue through the night. Mushrooms, nurtured by and loving the dark, begin to glow. Leaves, if very close, also retain some of the discharged chemicals and reflect the effect.

      Dark is the time when the most numerous occupants of this world emerge-the insects of all size and entomological variation. They hum, buzz and bite adding to the many insults to be endured. Various repellants and sprays are utilized but only achieving momentary relief until the vastly superior numbers return to achieve the necessary life cycle food. To some within the perimeter, the insects present a much harder item to endure than their mammalian foes lurking in the darkness.

      Adding to this sensory theatre, the unit’s higher elements might be engaging in a combination of supporting events. Protective fires are established at the four cardinal directions-designed by the Artillery Forward Observer. While this would alert the VC as to the night location, it also serves notice that a price will be extracted for engagement.

      Later, after the silence of the night descends, the deep muffled report of harassing and interdiction fires (H&I’s) would awaken the fitful sleepers as they searched and guessed for potential VC assembly and movement areas. These fires were at worst wasted and at best, lucky but for the personnel inside the perimeter, it gave them an addition bit of comfort in an uncomfortable place.
If interrupted by a contact, the enshrouding darkness would dramatically change with an unsettling but welcome relief. Artillery illumination could be heard fired in the distance to explode overhead, the containing shell would eject the flare with the canister continuing its travels. Rattling and crashing through the jungle foliage, it would shatter the silence and hopefully find impact other than inside the position. The flare would ignite with a pop and continuous greenish white hissing-momentarily sending wavering shafts of light through the canopy to the participants below on both sides.

      Looking left and right to his companions, a soldier would see his partners-the shimmering green beams exaggerating the hollow of the eyes to appear almost absent. A glance to the side would highlight the cheeks and the eyes-“I know. I know”- the glance would say and then be refocused on the task in front. They were a long way from home, but for a life moment, this was home. Hopefully, there would be more moments of time awarded until the final moment of this tour event, boarding the plane for a true home.

      In the distance, a mechanical ambush may be triggered in a momentary crash of sound and light. Everyone would rouse themselves to immediate alertness as birds and small mammals screamed and squawked in surprise. Then utter silence again descended as each soldier awaited the next act. Would they be attacked or ignored? Slowly, absent intervention, silence enshrouded the elements, the small minute light shows re-engaged and the weight of sleep overcame those with sufficient strength to suppress the adrenalin of survival. Computers have binary codes for On and Off. Infantry have them also-wakefullness or sleep-like, fighting or not, alive or dead.

     The leadership, suddenly aroused, would grab the radio handset and contact the higher location-as much as to find solace and the engagement of a larger force as to report activity. The forward observer would be on his radio alerting his battery for possible future support. The perimeter was alive with quick sudden breaths of surprise and visual focus over the small dark area just beyond each front sight.

      If fortune did not shine, shortly after the mechanical ambush detonation, sudden furtive noises are discerned. A hasty shot momentarily illuminates the space with a sharp crack that brings everyone to a forward lean-faces resting on the wet leaf blanket or rucksack nylon-eyes glancing out of the small slit left between the helmet rim and the ground.

      Suddenly, the air is rent with interlocking red and green tracers accompanied by the thump and crash of grenades. Little if anything can actually be seen-just stabbing lights, flashing cones of fire and quick yellow-red explosions. Each position is completely fixated on its front trading intermittent light with the attackers-lost in the enshrouding gloom and shaky movements the light described. Only the descending tree matter or the ascending dirt columns lends testimony to the closeness of the specific encounter. Between the high pitched staccato of small arms, the descending artillery protective fires would add their deep resonance. Tree limbs would shatter and dirt clods be propelled skyward. All this was unseen to the soldiers but they would immediately hear and feel the effect as the matter rained down upon them and created an emotionally warm blanket of support.

      While the sound would be deafening, that was not the timbre they listened for. They listened for the sound of feet running to their immediate front. They listened for different voices and language. They watched for the distinctive cone of fire from the AK muzzle blast to see if it aligned with the claymore to the front. If it did, there would be a distinctive clack of the soldier snapping the detonator followed immediately by a blinding blast and overwhelming explosion as the enemy had an immediate void in its lines. This would usually be followed by a continuation of the other mutually interdicting sounds as the battle would resume.

      The scratching sound of the enemy grenade being pulled to activate could occasionally be discerned. The alerted person would then listen carefully for the thump of the grenade on tree trunk or ground and winch in anticipation of the explosion-if it came. Sometimes, it was better just to not hear the scratch rather than endure the anticipatory process in a continuous cycle.

      Worse were the VC mortars. A distinct rattle could be discerned as the round fell down the tube and a following CLUNK heard over all other noises as the rounds were inserted. These were followed with a louder ignition. Then everyone inside the perimeter would mentally count awaiting the inevitable overhead flutter as the mortar flew toward them, then the crash and explosion. Sometimes, in very dense vegetation, the rounds would bounce through the trees, be deflected in their flight and land sideways with a quiet thunk-the fuse untouched. This was rare but welcome. Mortars in any form and efficiency are always bad.

     Artillery would begin to crash through the canopy with a demonstrably louder effect than that manufactured by the perimeter. Slowly at first, and then in greater volume as the confidence of accuracy was achieved, the crumps and blasts would intersperse to the point where they created a single overarching cacophony of sound and momentary light rending the vegetable and human matter into bits and pieces of what once was. As quickly as it began, it stopped. The heavy breathing of the perimeter mixed with the clicking and slamming of magazines into weapons and the clearing of links from feed trays eroded into the silence of the now deeply dark front. Voices communicating needs or orders shrank into silence. In some places, small glows could be seen from recently ignited vegetation, looking like a thousand red eyes, glowing in the jungle encircling the perimeter around them, but that soon dissipated in the wetness and the area reverted to what once was.

      Emotionally drained in the now utter silence, some soldiers would nod off, heads on rucksacks and looking out with blank eyes. Others, too adrenalized to join them, would just stare to their front with dilated pupils and await the dawn’s light to regain a sense of humanness. In the perimeter, no one really sleeps. The eyes are closed and the body feigns rest and achieves some partial rejuvenation. But it is not deep or satisfying. The eyes reflect this with a more sunken appearance, covered with a red-streaked emotional conjunctivitis. Observers call this the Thousand Yard stare-but it was achieved at a much closer range which only intensified the effect.

     Light and morning are only gradually realized. The first hint is from the canopy above which provides some contrast between the light and the leaf matter. Images become more pronounced as does color. What was the all-encompassing dark now shows flecks of green, white and ochre amongst the barks and floor. The troops stir, shake off the omnipresent dew and begin their life cycle. Small cans or cups of coffee interlaced with Swiss Miss glow above a blue green flame of a heat tab behind tree roots and rucksacks. Weapons are quietly wiped with an oily cloth and the fresh wrought earth and chopped vegetation of the night’s encounter noted. Expended brass and the pull loops of smoke and hand grenades are swept off the immediate living space to join the other centuries old accumulation of matter. Shortly, in less than a human lifespan here, the material will be indiscernible to the human eye. The world’s largest compost system is always working.

      By some silent signal. The soldiers rise to their feet in segments of body parts, gruntingly swing their rucksacks onto their bodies, grasp their weapons, fall into file and slip quietly into the gloom of the new day. Soldiers that only recently had stood on some distant playing field or exhibited their physical capacities to an enraptured crowd, now savored every moment of gained rest and resided on the edge of exhaustion. Sleeping while walking is a quickly learned craft. Distant cheering is replaced by grunts and sharp exhalations. Sweat and rain congealed into identical blots of dampness, the salt dissolving in the exterior moisture to be washed and lost on the epidermis. The clothing and equipment blend into the greenness of the distance as if all of them were just part of the normal organic matter. The silence is broken only by the immediate muffled noises of a unit in motion or the surprised rising alarm of a disturbed bird. Day and night in the jungle is molded together.

     Life and death do not require light, only participation and occupation. It is a cycle, not an event. Endurance in this cycle is a learned and essential quality. The paddy and the jungle forces move to exchange environments but not the laws and conditions of light and darkness. Those in light wish to see the dark and those in dark seek the warm sense of another day’s life on a shiny bright earth.