Our notebooks are getting soaked and it’s hard to write legibly with fingers wrinkled and swollen like prunes. Somehow we are compelled to write it all down despite the indelible nature of the images seared into our memory banks. We make a point of noting it all, the sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and thoughts. There’s still that little distance between observer and participant that we are trying to maintain, but it keeps shrinking every day in Hue. Under the cover of a poncho somewhere on the Southside near a well-manicured riverside garden spot, I examine my notes and wonder what really happened yesterday when I clearly closed that gap. A gaggle of hard-core gooks were manning several machineguns, at least two RPGs and one M-79 which had everyone pissed off and sweating in the cold rain. We were holding in a row of houses along a broad promenade were the abandoned residences were particularly well-appointed and richly furnished. People who lived in them before the NVA served a sudden eviction notice were clearly members of the local gook country club set.
What do You think about Run Between The Raindrops?
