October 3rd, 1969.
Sudwest Afrika (Angola)
Firebase Charlie. A home away from home. A fortress against the African plains and all that roam there. All kept up by the glorious Kraut-killing machinery issued by God Almighty himself, the U.S. Army.
It was night in the base, the fast-fliers that had saved countless grunts in the shit lay dormant, their pilots enjoying a semi-restful night. A few groups of GIs gathered around with each other, talking, drinking.
One of these was Private John C. Tibbets, 101st Airborne. A relatively simple man. Born and raised in the Golden State, he enlisted in the early days of the South African War, at the ripe old age of 18 years in 1964. A helmet adorned his head, reading "Cali' Or Bust" in black, with an Ace of Spades attached. His hands had once held an M14, but had been replaced with an M16A1. He wore his uniform with his sleeves down, ammo belts attached. It wasn't very comfortable, but he didn't think he would have to use it long. It would be quick, he had once thought. Kill some Boers, some fascist scum, go home to see his girlfriend.
It is 1969, and the war is finally approaching its end. At the cost of his girlfriend, his hometown, and countless lives. Nothing would be the same.
Sitting near him was his best friend from across the border in Arizona, Joseph D. Bier, 101st. A blonde, big man. He was tan from the African sun, like most in-country. He wore a flak jacket over his uniform, with rolled up sleeves and a bandana. Being a bigger man, he carried an M60 machine gun, the "Pig." He was a good man, good friend to the little group they had. You could count on him to lay down the pain when it was needed.
Aurelio Perez was a Chicano, his parents had gone to the US from Mexico before he was born. It wasn't a fun life in Texas, but he remained patriotic, and enlisted as soon as he could. He fought for his family and God. If he died, his mother and father would get the pay, and he would go to Heaven. That was fine by him.
Today's casualty reports were particularly bad. 5 lost in the bust to artillery. 5 good men lost. This particular artillery had been plaguing them since they shipped out here, and tomorrow was the day they'd take the Krauts to Hell.
In other news, President Robert F. Kennedy had authorized the use of napalm, much to the delight of the US Air Force and the GIs on the ground. As the saying goes, "Hell hath no fury like napalm alight." Or something like that.
Tibbets had been zoning out while listening and thinking about this, until being nudged by Bier.
"Hmm?, he said absentmindedly. "You alright there, John?"
"Yeah, just thinking. You know how I get when we aren't doing anything."
"Ah, the jitters again?"
"No, just...glad this whole thing is almost done. The war. I don't know what I'll do when we get back. I got nothing left. Those hippie pieces of shit, I don't want to see them." Especially not after that trip home, Tibbets thought.
"Tell you what, when we're back in the "world", I'll check out Cali' like ya said. We see any long-hairs, we'll fuck them up.", Bier said as he gave a joking smirk.
"Yeah, and what are we gonna do when we get thrown in jail?", he replied as he suppressed a laugh.
"Didn't think that far.", he said in return.
"Do you ever?", he jeered at Bier.
These two men were tired, and they had been pushed almost to madness in their time here. They had an unbreakable bond.
They laughed, as they listened to the familiar bars of "For What It's Worth" play from the radio. The two gathered their usual group, as they gathered to listen and talk.
October 3rd, 1969. The last normal day.
October 4th, 1969.
Firebase Charlie
In the early, crisp morning, the assault had begun.
The US 101st was about to make the drop to the Schild encampment where the god forsaken artillery was. They had gotten into the plane, getting ready for the drop.
The plane shook, but few were terrified anymore. The fear was replaced with hate. Hatred is a tool that can be used, so they harvested it.
As they approached the drop zone, they began their tradition. The thing they used to steel nerves and turn balls to iron. A song.
"He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright!"
"He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight!"
"He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar!"
"You ain't gonna jump no more!"
"Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die!"
"Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die!"
"Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die!"
"He ain't gonna jump no more!"
The light turned green, and they all filed out the door like schoolchildren. Perez, then Bier, then Tibbets. He took one last look at the plane. He felt the cold and the wind roaring at him, and jumped.
Somewhere a long ways away…
They heard it in their dreams.
An unknown language, the voices of men. So loud, it was accompanied by buzzing, by cracks on what seemed like thunder, but over it all, the song was heard. Pity they could not understand it.
"There was blood upon the risers, there were brains upon the chute!"
"Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper's suit!"
"He was a mess, they picked him up, and poured him from his boots!"
"And he ain't gonna jump no more!"