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“The point man blues” begins . . .
He slogs along all day in the oppressive heat; Constantly fighting the jungle that reaches out around him, always, it seems, trying to take him down. His eyes, his senses, can’t leave the jungle for one second, or they might all be killed. Just a moments lapse, and a missed sign, might mean walking one hundred and twenty young men to their death.
He evaluates each bent blade of grass . . . How long since someone last passed? How many men? Any freshly cut branches? Any trip wire’s? Sometimes he Watches the long thin blade of grass, he holds out in front of him, to see if it has hit a wire?
Watching like he watches everything . . . All at the same time. Never focusing on any one thing . . . Taking it all in at the same time. Seeing and feeling everything at once. Looking for anything that is out of place. Seeing every downed log as a potential bunker face; Smiling up at him with one sinister eye. Knowing that the one you don’t see, is the one that kills. Sometimes he will walk up close before he notices the bunker; His whole body will jump . . . Feeling like a jolt of electricity was just applied directly to his heart . . . He silently vows not to be surprised again. He points to the bunker, so the back up man can silently pass the word on. Each man pointing, so the man behind sees the bunker, and will therefore be on full alert. He hopes the back up man doesn’t notice that he didn’t see the bunker until the last second. The back up man is his teacher. He is a point man graduate; An old pro. He carries the compass and points the way; Leaving it up you to find the best route
Every moment is like the notes of a slow song. Every small piece of the jungle fits into the song. If there is one piece missing, from the puzzle, it’s like a guitar string; snaps . . . Your not really what the normal man would call tense . . . your in tune . . . You must be to stay alive. This must be how great musicians feel, when they finally have all the notes in place, and hear the perfect beat of their music playing through one hundred instruments, all in tune;
Every note digging far down, to a place in the depths of your soul, where nothing else has ever been.
I guess that’s why they think your crazy . . . I guess you got to be a little nuts to live that way.
Nothing ever, quite, gets you there again . . . Oh . . . you try. . . You try all right; The heroin (they called it coke in the Vietnam of the early 70‘s, but that‘s another story;) The weed (Cambodian red, Bon Song bombers;) You try all different combinations of drugs; But nothing even comes close. They (the doctors at the Veterans Hospitals) even try psychotic drugs on you. The drugs cause you to forget, for a little while: But it always comes back; Because, you got the blues . . . “The point man blues.”
Women, kids, sports, gambling, sex, speaking to groups of one thousand plus, being on T.V., having your own show; They all got there own edge; But nothing even comes close to “The point man blues.”
If I would have known, I surely would have stayed at home; Or at least tried to stay a little further back in the line.
WOW! . . . “THE POINT MAN BLUES.” Can you help me get there again
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