Creative Writing: The First Vietnam War

“Could that be an air raid warning?” He whispers, recalling that in World War 2 they would sound sirens to warn of the German planes in the skies,

“Tim” explains how as these men carry a large emotional load, they also seem surrounded by many wounded grunts and demise. The rainfall and cold never stop as it only sets in, making the cold settle into their aching bones like a dagger at times. “Tim” imagined they all carry the land,

“Trees towered upwards with bending boughs holding the weight of the freshly fallen snow. A blanket of snow hid away all traces of animal life although you could hear the krawing of a murder of crows. Their hidden presence was foreboding to all men who passed through the forest. It was a signal of another starved beast returning to the earth. Even the most frivolous found the endless winter to be a burden.

How long had it been he wasn’t sure; being left to your own devices was painful after a while. He had been attached to this unit at last minute; the 1-152 IN of the 76th Brigade. He was one of the few soldiers that where held back as extra bodies for the upcoming war everyone was so against. Since he had been attached during pre-mob he had tried to get along with everyone but soon he realized it would be impossible; they kept their close nit group between the actual unit and no one was allowed in. There were a few attached soldiers but he was the only one who didn’t have someone from his unit placed as an attachment as well.

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names "Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"--passed in their turn, looking like banditti.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” I bark. “Serenity, we’ve got to go investigate right away. Where are the humans located?”

We began to march. It was dark and cold and scary. Terrified the British could pop out any second, I began to think of the worst. I had heard stories of the town of Lexington having some strange occurrences. One soldier, once reported seeing a ghostly figure in a red coat walking alone in the distance. Which was really weird to EVER see a soldier walking alone at night. Let alone a red coat. We snuck quietly from the south, and we surrounded them by the West, North and South, but we had the East on our side too, it was the shoreline. They were trapped this way because they couldn't sail away.We decided to stop and rest up, and I had been hearing noises of guns cocking, and cannons being wheeled by, and generals quietly whispering orders. Everytime I heard it I would ask if the soldier next to me heard it too, He never heard it. I was concerned so I approached Captain Parker. "Sir i've been hearing noises from the North West. I think we should look for General Hugh Percy and his troops that way.”

A dark and smoky gray night fell over the green grass. An old lamp at the end of an overused power cord of a wooden pole was swinging in the wind. It lit up the surroundings of the construction and printed my moving shadow on the wall behind me. In the half-light of dusk, I walked out of the ruins that minimally protected me from the wrath of the RPF and showed my face to a fire-breathing dragon. I walked into a thick and wet mist that linked up with the wind to whisper ghostly oohs in my ears. I was scared and my legs trembled. Under the dim light, I could not see anything. The smoking of the war clouded the roof of the region and the cold breeze spread an odor of blood and brought the moans of dying people. The dense haze covering my vision

I noticed the mercenary company with the Count’s lancers and carriage was located behind the stage, in a position of honor. The presence of a second carriage of ornate design surprised me. “It can only be one person,” I thought. As we rode up, I saw behind the Count’s mounted lancers were a half-a-dozen men-at-arms and another dozen royal archers escorting Princess Wyrd to the stage. The Black Prince and the Count were waiting for her on the stage, along with a number of courtiers. She wore a huntsman outfit, a green leather shirt and a green cloak with tan colored leather pants and riding boots.

The tanks were approaching, I need to run. I flee as fast as I can towards the northern mountains,

Sweat trickled down my back and forehead. I felt a single droplet drip off the tip of my nose and splash onto the earthy mulch that had just been spread in the previous week. Stephanie summoned me over to see if my garden claw would be a better match, than the obviously weaker trowel she had been clouting into the ground. Waging war against the stubborn roots thriving in my front yard for ages, would not be an easy chore. We had agreed to help weed, but only in hopes of a cold, creamy reward promised by my lazy father. With a few quick steps, I positioned my body into what my naive 14 year-old logic had apprehended to be the most efficient stance for extracting this stiff shrub. Looking down at the exposed flesh of the half-beaten roots. I prepared myself for my own King Arthur moment, taking short but confident glances up and down my “Excalibur”, which in my fable was sadly only a rusty old gardening fork.

My heart skips a beat. All I can think of is Ben when he crumpled on the ground, his arm sliced by the soldier’s sword. I rush over, pushing Perta, and the others out of the way, my breath caught in my throat in relief to see that Melok’s fine. He sits up, his face red, but his breathing fine. He even takes Perta's hand and stands up to talk.

As the second battle begins, Henry and his regiment march fiercely toward the rebels. They fought with courage and bravery and had pushed the enemy back . “Well we've helt 'em back. We've helt 'em back; derned if we haven't!” said some of the union soldiers. Smiles broke out all over the battlefield, that was until the enemy had came back with such power in one swift blow it left the union soldiers running for the hills. This retaliation had struck fear into the union soldiers and most of them began to run. Henry looked around and saw nothing but death and agony in his fellow soldiers. This gruesome sight had left Henry mortified. He had forgotten everything

New replacement soldiers arrive at the camp outside of Metz after the battle at Verdun. Replacement Allen Hayes gets put in the experienced 4th platoon, because of his great achievements at boot camp. During his first day, he was lost, clueless, and afraid. His commanding officer of his platoon is Lt. Arthur.

    “The Jerens —  they’re coming!” Ferne gasped. “They won’t reach us for some time, but they’re close!”