A/N: This particular fic was inspired by The Who's "Melancholia." This is not really a "song fic," per se, but I am including bits and pieces from the lyrics that I felt fit well here.
Also, side note—if you're not familiar with the Jim Mancuso character, it might benefit you to read my other Vietnam oneshot, Fragments, where he first appears. He started to grow on me so I decided to bring him back here.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders or "Melancholia" by The Who.
Melancholia
What can you do in a war? I mean besides the routine killing of the enemy. What can you really do—play cards? Write home to your girlfriend, or to your family? Make jokes with your buddies about that old villager you shot earlier in the day so that the reality of death pales in comparison? When did he become your enemy, anyway? Was it when you realized he wasn't an American, wore one of those strange conical hats instead of a helmet, and carried a bucket of water from a nearby well instead of an M-16?
In Vietnam, your mind does all the talking, and there's no stopping it. It makes the war boring but it speeds up the process.
What can you do in a war? You can think. And you can realize how quickly it's become a part of you, or how you've become a part of the war. Maybe both. I haven't quite figured that one out yet.
Each day brings something different—one day might be a constant struggle to stay alive, to evade the enemy, to keep your distance … and the next might be so boring, so monotonous and mundane, that you're actually longing for that action, the carnage, the exhaustion—anything to get your adrenaline pumping. It's funny and ironic to notice how you're never in danger when your own mortality becomes the most important subject on your mind. I guess what they say is true—the minute you stop thinking about dying or getting out of there, that's when you're in trouble.
I'm thinking too much—I guess I must not be in danger now.
my clothes are torn, my shoes are worn
my heart is born to melancholia
War's a funny thing when you really get to know people. I mean your buddies, the guys who are around you day in and day out. I guess they keep you sane, or at least help to maintain your sanity level—above average in Vietnam is okay but anything beyond that and you might end up like Jim Mancuso, notorious now in our platoon, even after he's been gone for months, for his self-induced million-dollar wound. The idea—not reality; it's only a pipe dream until you're actually on that plane back to the World—of getting out alive and going home is what every guy here wants, naturally, but you don't want to end up like Mancuso. That's almost like ending up like Dallas.
I think some guys here worry too much. And I think that's what makes them lose their cool. Mancuso played it like he was having a grand ol' time; it was like summer camp, for him, or so we thought. There was one day, weeks before he became the victim of his own bullet, where during mail call he got one of those dreaded 'Dear John' letters from his girl back in Indiana. Said she was fed up with the Army and didn't give much explanation beyond that, just that he had better not write back to her. And that was that. But Mancuso worried and laughed, called her a "silly girl," and then later burned that letter over the flame of a C-4 when he thought nobody was looking.
That may have been what sparked it. I mean his insanity—what made him lose his cool.
a strange surprise, what I despised in other guys is here in me
they lose their girl, they lose their world
and then they cry for all to see
The funny thing about war is that the insanity is kind of contagious. You know? Like when some dumb kid at school catches the flu and then passes it on to everybody else, until everybody's droppin' like flies—that kinda thing. It spreads, and it makes a show of it.
None of us know for sure what alarm went off in Mancuso's head that night but it sure made us all want to go home real bad. Shooting yourself? Yeah, after he did it, it seemed like a great idea—an easier way to go home early. We admired him for his "bravery." (Right—what bravery?)
And collectively, we all wanted to do it, but we would never tell each other for fear of sounding like cowards. A little contradictory, I guess, but war does things to you. Vietnam does things to you—it messes with your head, knocks a few screws lose. It's no wonder you hear about so many guys ending up in a shrink's office. Or dead.
I've never felt so bad
the virus drives me mad
Being here hasn't taught me much, except what not to do, I guess. I shouldn't even be thinking about this right now; it'll be my turn to keep guard again in ten minutes and I can't sleep. I should be thinking about that instead. Sharing my foxhole is with me is my buddy Rankin and he is still—I wonder what he is thinking. He don't talk much, so you never really know either way.
I pretend to be asleep when he wakes me up, and as I watch the night slide sluggishly into morning for the next two hours, I realize something—there's really not too much you can do in a war, except think. And try to stay alive. I mean live.
Does it sound too choppy? I thought it did when I wrote it last night, which is why I'm still not entirely pleased with it, but as I've read it over a few times now, I've warmed up to it a little. I probably could have done better, though. I don't think it's quite as good as my other two. But I'm probably biased because I'm the author so I'll leave the opinions up to you guys. :)
Happy Thanksgiving.