Red on His Feet

[lexicon]

Aav Lab

Every step sent upwards a red cloud of dirt and dust. The fine granules settled into his hair and on his clothes. Heels caked in the fine dust became stone weights over time. Mixed with the sweat from the noon day sun, he resembled one of the temple sculptures more than he did human. The only benefit of the sun baked clay came from providing a respite from the gnats constantly buzzing in from the rice paddies. The dive bombing gnats met resistance anywhere there was dust and sweat. A small victory.

...

[lexicon]

We coaxed what warmth we could from the small fire burning in the iron stove. All black and metal, smeared with grease from previous fires. It took but a few cold nights to make oneself immune to the choking smoke that often filled the living room upon starting a new fire. Being comfortably warm meant risking a little seared flesh and soot in one's nose. A small debt to pay against the biting chill. The kind of cold that kept us silent. Because talking meant breathing in the cold air. So being quiet became necessary for staying warm.

[lexicon]

When they planes roared above, they ran.
When the muzzles smoked and burned, they ran.
When the .50 caliber rounds rained down upon them, many more ran. Some, less fortunate than others, would never run again.

Those that still could, sought cover in the dense jungles. They traveled through the clinging underbrush at night. Away from the camp fires. Away from search parties of enemy soldiers. Away from many friends and family.

They spoke in hushed whispers, eyes always alert, ready to escape into the depths of the jungle at any moment's notice.
When necessary, they traveled in groups. What little food and water and news was shared.

But a darker truth also persisted. Present in the backs of their minds. Old men and women. Children, hungry and crying. Those who couldn't shoulder their share. The Jungle would offer salvation to only those capable and willing to take it.

[lexicon]

No, I wasn't. But it's one of the many reasons why this particular subject appeals to me.

This is as much a writing exercise as it is an attempt to connect with my parent's generation. Although the narrative is fictional, the experience are identifiable. These stories are really an amalgam of many I've personally heard. It's one way I feel I can personally bridge this disconnect between my generation and the generation that came before. All stories need to be told.

[lexicon]

"When in war, there were no friends or family, no right or wrong, we just shot them to kill them. We killed them before they could kill us."

"Did you hate them?", we asked.

"We didn't know them so how could we hate them. We were told by our superiors that they were our enemies. And if we failed to kill them first, they'd kill us."

He paused, rubbed his temples and sighed. The sound, like air hissing out of a deflating tire.

And then he continued.

"Many of us were taken straight out of grade school and could no longer be children. We were given rifles; we were trained how to fire them and reload them. The rifles were like new toys to us. We carried them and showed them to the others around the village. We saw the admiration of some parents and elders. We saw the envious stares from the younger children. We felt pride. We felt honored. We were going to go chase the enemies off our land and away from our homes."