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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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