A Soldier's Diary
by Matt Kozlov
October 26, 1965
Dear Diary,
My CO, Lieutenant Frank Cooper, says that we should keep a
diary out here. He says that it’ll keep us sane. So,
here you are. And here I am. The name’s
Enders. Nice to meet you. I’m new here. Just came
yesterday. Already, though, I’ve met some pretty
crazy people. That one guy, Larfaccio (I think he’s
a medic), he took me into Gia Nghia, a small village
near base, the first day I got here. He brought me to
this mama-san he knows pretty well and treated me to
my “first time.” People around here I guess waste no
time in making friends. Everyone here knows everybody
else. That’s real nice if you ask me.
Hey journal, how’m I doing so far? I don’t really
know what kind of writing you’re used to, so I hope
I’m doing well. I never really was the writing,
scholar-like type. You see, before I enlisted, I
helped my dad move crates and stuff down by the pier.
I never did too well in school. My teachers said I
wasn’t “mentally focused.” Oh well, what the hell,
says I. While I’m introducing myself and telling you
what my life was like back home, I guess I should tell
you about my love life. I bet all the guys tell their
journals about their honeys and what they did with
them the night before leaving for training. You don’t
get to hear any of that, lucky you. I will confess
right now, to get it over with, that I was a social
reject. A real loser. I was getting such poor marks
in school, I just stopped going. Down at the pier,
though, you don’t meet too many people your age.
All day long I was treated to the company of forty year
-old, pot-bellied, chain smoking, dirty, disgusting men
with words like “MOM,” “DEATH,” and “HATE,” tattooed on
their arms. There was, of course, that man with the
word “BALLET” tattooed on his arms, but he stayed to
himself. Oh, and there was that guy with a “LOVE”
tattoo, but no one was ever really certain whether he
was a man or a woman. Oh well, what the hell, says I.
Anyhow, I didn’t really have any friends. No
pals; no sweethearts. In that respect, this place may
be better than home. I have six friends already after
only one day, and I was laid within twenty four hours
of arrival. Some country! Who knows, though, what
this country has in store for me? I know it won’t be
all fun and games. I know the army is more than just
a chance to see the world. Hell, I know what war is.
War is hell, right? Well, I’ll see for myself. In the
meantime, though, why not have a hell of a time? You
only live once. So, I will be the best marine I can
possibly be, but at the same time, I will make friends,
I will enjoy myself, and I will make the best of this
beautiful, tropical, lush, green, surreal country.
Goodnight, diary. I’m off to a party the CO is holding
for all the new privates.
************************************************************************
November 30, 1965
Dear diary,
I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving, journal. I spent
mine on duty doing Zippo raids. We toasted three or
four villages last week with only one or two firefights.
Our platoon wasn’t hit too hard, but we lost
Larfaccio. We were trekking down this trail on the way
to a village that was supposedly VC sympathetic, and it
was hot. It had to be like 107; hot enough to roast a
hen, I swear. Anyway, we stop to rest for a minute.
Larfaccio wasn’t the only one to do so, but he had
taken most of his gear off, including his helmet. Next
thing we know, Charlie hits. Fzzzzzzzzzzt. A tracer
whizzes right by my head, nicking my ear. I turn
around, and I see Larfaccio on the floor, only he’s no
longer Larfaccio. He’s got a huge gaping hole where
his cowlick used to be. I turn him over, and I see
he’s also got a huge gaping hole where his right eye
used to be. Looked sort of like a bowling ball. I
started puking. I think I might have cried. The rest
of the platoon, they paid Charlie back. When the six
or seven VCs were found, they weren’t executed nice and
proper. Larfaccio’s best friend, Caressi, the only
other Italian in Cooper’s command, led the shindig.
First he lined the fuckers up in a row. They were
surprisingly calm. They didn’t cry out for their
mothers like I’d seen some of our guys do when they got
in trouble. They didn’t get on their knees and beg
for their lives. They didn’t even pray. They just
stood there and waited with shut eyes for whatever was
about to come. I was impressed. You should have seen
Caressi, though. He was acting as the VC should have
been. He’d gone insane. I felt sorry for the guy.
His face wasn’t simply red; it was like neon or
something. I kept waiting for the veins in his
forehead to pop. He was wailing, too. Like a baby.
I’m thinking now maybe I should have stopped him.
Shot after shot- to their kneecaps, their groins,
their ears, their arms, their legs, their noses.
They were his personal firing range.
We all watched and didn’t say a word. Why? We pitied
him. We didn’t want to further anger him. No, those
are excuses. Why, really? We would have done the
same. To tell you the truth, I sort of enjoyed
watching it. Something, though, disturbed me. I’m not
sure what, but I think it had something to do with the
VC reaction. It didn’t sit right with me. You’re
slowly getting killed, you don’t sit back and let it
happen. I think I even saw one of them smile. What
the fuck is there to smile at when some brute’s jammed
a gun up your ass? I think I even heard another
Charlie laugh once as he spat out his teeth in a pile
of blood.
************************************************************************
January 30, 1966
Dear diary,
I saw something today. We were humping through a
freefire zone during a standard S&D, and the men both
directly in front of me and behind me were shot in the
head by sniper fire. Half our battalion was wiped out
in battle today. For all intents and purposes, I was
killed today. The VC have something we don’t. I don’t
know what it is, but I have to find out. What is it
that enables them to calmly stand in a ditch while
some one is shooting their limbs off one by one?
What is it that enables the VC to keep at it despite
heavy bombing, despite being outmanned and outgunned,
despite getting the shit kicked out of them? I have
to know, and I will do anything to find out. I will
not be writing for a while. Dead men don’t write.
I must learn what needs to be learned. Goodbye, diary.
If and when I see you next, circumstances will be quite
different.
************************************************************************
January 30, 1968
Hey, hey, hey diary,
Miss me much? I missed you. I can imagine sitting in
a duffel bag for two years can get rather lonesome.
Well, now you have me, and we’re going to back to
America. Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re going
to prison! Wahoo! Cooper says Daddy’s a sick
motherfucker. He says Daddy’s never going to see the
light of day again. He says it’s people like Daddy
that give war a bad name. Oh well, what the hell,
says I. That’s the bad news. I have to leave ‘Nam.
Some people would throw their hands up to God in praise
for such an opportunity. Not me, though. I found the
secret. That’s the good news. Remember all that shit
I was telling you two years ago about going on a quest
to learn what needs to be learned? Well, quest’s over.
The trick to steel balls is so simple. The trick the
VC are taught from an early age that enables them to
keep fighting is so incredibly, mindfuckingly simple.
Ready? Here it is: just want to fight and not care
about anything. Okay, it takes a little more than that.
You have to establish mental domination over your
opponent. Mental focus is the trick. Once you’ve got
that you can do anything. That’s what those 7 VC
Caressi killed had. That’s what Caressi didn’t have.
That’s what I have. It took a while to find, but once
I found it and practiced it, it was barrels of fun.
Big, huge, overflowing bloody barrels. I think my
final tally for the two years was something like 78,
each one an orgasmic experience. They never get away.
Oh, they certainly try alright, but no one can outrun
a tracer. One sweet little girl I met dodged a bullet
once (I was very impressed), but I got her with the
second shot. Right in the leg. Remember the time I
got shot in the ear? Well, judging by the reaction
of my gook “friends,” being shot in a limb is nothing
like that. The thought of having that happen to me
doesn’t tickle my fancy…but watching it does. That’s
just the start of my patented process, though.
Once I’ve got them weakened, they’re mine. Have you
ever had utter power over another human, my friend?
Of course you haven’t. You’re inanimate. Well, just
dreaming about it is a wet dream. Reality, of course,
is ten times sweeter. When they realize what’s going
down, they beg you to stop in that beautiful gook
gibberish of theirs; they try to get away; they
sometimes hit you feebly. But they know, and you know;
they can’t do shit ‘cause they’re too fuckin’ weak!
And that’s what it comes down to: power…complete
fuckin’ power. You’re not getting off in the dick;
you’re getting off in the cerebellum, man. You’re
pulling the strings. You’ve got all the power.When I
finish that, they can’t move. That gives me a perfect
canvas. I take out my set of army-issued knives
(ranging from penknives for the delicate, detail work
to machetes for the larger jobs) and start drawing away.
‘Nam and its beautiful landscape really taught me to
appreciate art and beauty. I told you I’d make the
best of this country. I found I have a talent for
carving landscapes out of human flesh. It’s really
spectacular if you ask me. Don’t worry, though. I
never kill ‘em. The fun’s in having them know you
could at any time. Remember, mental domination; not
physical. It’s much more effective.
When I finish this, I clean up the mess and bring
them back to their parents’ hut and watch from a
distance. Surprisingly, most parents don’t appreciate
what I’ve given them. It’s a bit discouraging, but oh
well, what the hell, says I.
78 times I’ve done this, and each one’s better
than all the others combined. I’m ultraviolent; I want
to fight. I’m a marine. I’m better than a marine.
I’m a marine who loves his job. Maybe it’s people like
me who give war a bad name, but it’s people like me
who win. Cooper’s got it all wrong. War is not
politics; war is not democracy versus communism. War
is trenches filled with blood. War is gooks getting
their limbs blown off. War is people becoming bowling
balls.
War is hell, right? Well, I’ve been to Hell and
back and went again for seconds. Shit, I am the king
of Hell. I am fucking Satan. I don’t care if they put
me in the slammer. I don’t blame them. They can do
anything to me, but nothing will phase me. I have the
talent. I am the most mentally fucking focused man
alive. If only my teachers could see me now.
P.S. Cooper was right about one thing. You have kept
me sane.
