Bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail, 31 May, 1970

B-52: a city on its own. You mess with us, we’ve got technology. I loved it when we flew into the zone: as Ernie said, “We’ll kill ’em till they’re free.” My job? To watch the black cascade of death and myriad explosions in the woods: Louisiana lilt – “You hold your breath,” that’s Ernie’s voice – “delivering the goods!” The pretty serpentine of falling bombs that seemed to slither through the virgin air distracted me from pilot intercoms, and radar monitors’ unblinking glare. We didn’t think – I only speak for me – you’d have to ask my buddies on the crew, if any made it out – of those VC, or what our “dirty chemicals” might do to people down below. We went along with what they told us, Audie Murphy-like. Neil Armstrong was, to us, just one word – “strong”. And dinks and gooks could go and take a hike. That lunar surface. Nothing down there moved. “I guess they won’t be planting no more rice,” - that’s Ernie. Our sophistication proved, we sang the Sound of Music (Edelweiss). By accident, I saw a TV Show last week, some fancy name, “Unceasing Toil”, about those peasants. Watching HBO is not my thing. It said we wrecked their soil and killed their trees. Who, me? I don’t know squat. The gorgeous nebula when napalm bursts is fun from up on high. I’ll tell you what. Phosphorus bombs beat all your Damien Hirsts.