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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required we sat, my brother and I leaning against the old wood pannels of the room the smoke engulfed us like breath as the threat of violence loomed his voice was quiet still passion and regret burned in his eyes when he finally opened his mouth words failed him for the first time he'd been our uncle for ages a part of our lives since we were kids my mother used to say he was funny once but that the war had changed him finally he spoke in slow motion we waited on tenterhooks for every word our breath bound by more than smoke as he let his story unfurl leaning back in his chair the words crawled from his lips a voice beat to a pulp by his whiskey and cigarettes he talked of the sceneary the forrests thicker than amber the "nats" as he called them clung to your skin like a cancer He was only 19 then fresh off the farm he'd always worked on fired his first gun at basic training his drill sargeant told him that they were now one his words formed snakes that coiled around my brother and i and when his words got soft and slow he simply took a drag and closed his eyes he described in details much more than any kids should know details about basic training and the washouts that walked skid row he turned twenty the day before he hopped on his first airplane while he and others got sick the music on the stereo played he skipped some parts the walking, the girls, the mundane acts instead he talked about his friend how they were like brothers, just like me and Jack His boots destroyed his feet his clothes permanently soaked to bone he laughed with gravel in his voice as he talked about missing home Dean was the name of his friend, his brother in arms he was from Alabama with a southern accent, rich and strong They would talk about girls who they had waiting in bed nights spent on watch guns, "nats" and hushed conversation between them My uncle talked in clicks spoke of companies and Charlies his hands shook with a violence that was only matched by his memory Jack and I sat stone still hanging on to every word and deep breath knees tucked up to our chins shaking from the excitement of what would come next we were so young then and knew nothing of battle, war, or loss the term post tramatic stress disorder was foreign to all and did nothing to help us he leaned close so to whisper because his natural, deep voice failed him sweat clung to his shirt now as his fingers held a cigarette that bounced from the trembling The sun had made it's decent the room was now filled with shadows our uncle clutched his crucifix his hand turned white from the hallow he slowly set the scene tilting his head back as he exhaled deeply the Binh Duong Province, October 17th Innocence was lost entirely on that morning The television and papers screamed calling it the battle of Ong Thahn my uncle called it a waste of lives the army called them the 2nd battalion 64 died in 2 hours Dean, my uncles rock among them as he spoke those words he sobbed some of his best friends were now dead he told us about the war his two tours he barely lived through talked to us about mortars, and friendly fire and of how the scenery was so beautiful He cussed lowly in his whispers dried tears covered his face He told us he never felt truly alive after he left that god forsaken place in the end it was the war the war that tore him apart dirt poor and a drunk with a empty and violent heart our uncle, the fun one once divorced of our aunt and his innocence might've as well died over there, but life doesn't offer forgiveness he ended up a cliche the guy who was "really there man" he came home fully intact but was half the man he'd been
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