Another Nightmare

The dream came again last night. Just like it did every night. I was sitting across from Patrick O'Reilly in the Huey, preparing to drop Patrick's team of gerbils into the black jungle of the Duc Thong Province. Patrick specialized in scouting out the tunnels used by the VC in this part of South Vietnam. Patrick was 5-feet 4-inches, tall -- 108 pounds of steely muscle, sinew and guts. Pound-for-pound, he was the toughest man in the Army in my estimation. Patrick and his gerbils would descend into the tunnels to ferret out the enemy. The tunnels were dark, they were booby-trapped and you never knew if the next turn in the tunnel would lead you into a whole nest of VC. But it was important to penetrate these tunnels. Even though the tunnels were usually only 4-feet high, the enemy would transport hundreds of troops from the north into our southern battle zones. As our helicopter descended to drop off the gerbils, I heard the sound of small arms fire from below and I knew our chopper was being hit. The engine stalled for a moment, started again and then went silent. The helicopter was going down -- 112,000 pounds of metal dropping like a dead weight into the marsh. A Huey was not a glider. Within two seconds, the chopper hit the ground, the sound of bending steel and violent collision assured me there would be death tonight. I heard an explosion and found myself a moment later in some tall reeds. The VC who had fired on our helicopter were moving in, dozens of them. Several of the enemy ran right past me, only three feet away, but I was well hidden in the reeds. Our aircraft was engulfed in flames. This entire meadow was overrun with VC. So I began running, bending low to keep out of sight. I looked ahead and saw Patrick on the ground dazed. "Let's go, man. Everyone else is dead. Go. Go. Go." Patrick snapped out of it and we began running for our lives. The vines and vegetation sliced my skin into mincemeat, but I hardly noticed. I was quite a runner and had been a district champion in the 100-yard dash in high school. Patrick and I sprinted for 20 minutes and we finally picked up a trail that was relatively clear of brush. It looked like we were home free. "We made it, Raffy. We made it!" Patrick said, flashing that wide Irish grin. I heard gunfire and Patrick's face froze. I sensed hot dampness on my skin. It was blood. Patrick's skull had been hit with an enemy bullet and his blood was splattered all over me. I found myself on the ground next to the Irishman's body. I heard the sound of footsteps and the metalic clicking of hand-held weapons. It was too late. I was surrounded close-range by six or eight VC and one of them was poking his rifle into my ribs. I knew what was next -- endless days in a 4-foot bamboo cage enduring torture, starvation and the fear of more brutality. Then the dream ended, as usual. My bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Deja vu in my dreams. The same dream, the same ending. Another night, another nightmare.