55 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

The Valley of Sorrows , livre ebook

Outskirts Press - L. Ericson

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

55 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

The unknown inheritance of a war in prose, poetry , and photographs.

The Valley of Sorrows

The Que Son Valley was like no other

Took your sons took your brothers

Stole your dreams ruined lives

Made widows out of wives.

For all who walked away they live within it every day

Smell the hedgerows dig the holes

Cross the river that flowed

Still see the blood on their clothes

Hear the mortars and incoming rounds

Watch the choppers hit the ground

Watch as they fly away

Early morning here we stay

Memories that do not fade

The Que Son Valley was an early grave.

Sujets

War

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	31 mai 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977264855
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

-->

The Valley of Sorrows All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 L. Ericson v1.0
This is a work of poeticized non-fiction. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-6485-5
Cover Photo © 2023 National Archives & Records. All rights reserved - used with permission.
All photographs courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration Department of Defense / United States Marine Corps Vietnam
Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Table of Contents
Prologue
The Valley of Sorrows
Prologue
The Que Son Valley, summer, 1967 sat, crouched like a cat, fangs bared, tail twitching, a malevolent entity that brooked your presence grudgingly. Cloaked in emerald hues of every shade,
A deception, a magic trick that fooled the eye, held and hid its secrets. An exotic place.
Beauty everywhere. A perverted beauty. A deceptive beauty. Beauty with the soul of a serial killer. Walking through it you were watched by unseen eyes. By something indefinable. Ghosts. Spirits. Specters. The hills looked down upon you, spies that ruled the Valley. Death’s dark eyes, foreboding, unmerciful. It’s face everywhere. Nowhere. You could… almost… see it. Look for it, it’s gone.
This was an ancient place. Old when Christ walked Galilee. Old when Ganges Khan’s hordes swept the steppes. You had never imagined a place this old and never wanted to see one again. Nothing you’d ever read, seen, or imagined could prepare you. Violence seemed part of it, was woven into it, and you knew, given the chance, would visit that violence upon you. You, before entering, thought you knew what scared was. You had no idea. Constantly. Fervently. Religiously.
“Forgive us our trespasses.” Nowhere had those words meant more. Here the flora and fauna conspired against you. There were… Things… that crawled, slithered, bit, scratched, killed.
Snake. Scorpion, Sniper. Things without names. Things without fear of you. You may walk the Valley but you weren’t the baddest thing in this Valley.
“Forgive us our trespasses.”
No forgiving. No forgetting. No absolution.

The scars of war are not easily seen

In the lives we live between

Setting foot on the shore

The many lives we’ve lived before

And in these pages you may find

All those lives you left behind

Like no going home again

From whence your life began

So come and walk the trails and hollows

Where your lives weren’t owned only borrowed

Where for everyday lived you sacrificed your tomorrows

Way out here in the Valley of Sorrows.

TICK TICK TICK
Some folks wonder what makes you tick.

(elephant grass and punji pits)

Why you’re not like other folks.

(Bouncing Betty and napalm smoke)

Why you’ve got a bit of a temper,

(scorching sun and monsoon weather)

Why you keep it all inside.

(60 wounded and 18 died)

That what bothers them runs off your back.

(midnight mortar attack)

Why sometimes you sit and stare.

(overhead tracers and flares)

Yep, some folks wonder what makes you tick.

tick tick tick tick.

The sun was shining on the ville

looked like Heaven smelled like Hell.

The peanuts were drying on a mat

in front of which Mama san sat.

Two water boo were giving us the eye

there’s not a cloud in the sky.

The Angel of Death was sitting near

stoking the fires of fear.

And all around came the sound

of jungle boots striking the ground.

Oh, what a bloody mess

“Bang”

said the sniper in his nest.

Just another day in the Devil’s domain

8000 miles

from Wilshire and Main.

He had a 60 Chevy with a 348.

Had a girl he used to date.

He had a 22 when he was 12.

Thought he knew the difference between Heaven and Hell.

Took her to the drive-in two towns over.

Bought her some candy from Russell Stover’s.

Had everything a young guy could want.

Had 3 uncles and an aunt.

He used to dream about all he’d lost.

Used to say it was just the cost.

Just the cost of doing what’s right.

Used to say it after every firefight.

Said it when he climbed the mountains.

Said it when mortars rained down like a fountain.

I asked him, “What are you going to do when you get back?”

This was the morning after the attack.

But not a word came from his lips.

I think he knew it was a one way trip.

There’s a young guy lives inside of me
And he’s only 18
Nothing wrong with his hips, back, or knees
His eyesight’s good his hearing too
There’s not a thing he’s afraid to do
Take a corner at 90 miles an hour
Drink and smoke a bit of the wildwood flower
But he’d really like a nice hot shower
A hot shower and dry feet
A four poster bed in which to sleep
Sunday dinner would be a treat
But of all that
A hundred rounds is all he lacks
Knows just what he’ll do when he gets back
Yep, he’s still 18
The kids still got all his dreams
Got his dreams, wishes, and wants
Gets a kick out of haunting me
When I’m reciting the Rosary
But me and him we’ve made our peace
Him with his dreams and me with my knees.

With Honors

Every bone in his body hurt
from head to toe he was covered in dirt
hadn’t a shower in 3 weeks
was bitten all over by a leech
had running sores on his feet
on his back an empty pack
shared a hole with his buddy Jack
23 days in the bush
every day an adrenaline rush
he’d dropped 30 pounds
fired off 300 rounds
blew 4 duds and a tunnel
used his helmet for a funnel
to look at him you’d never know
he graduated high school 8 months ago.

When it rained you got wet

When it was hot you got the sweats

When night came you dug a hole

Then the mosquito’s took their toll

23 days without a bath

23 days you only napped

Ate your meals from a can

Left you looking like a skin and bones man

Off your body had your clothes rot

Then you got … shot.

A man of few words.

He spoke in a foreign tongue
always going on about the stars and sun
monsoon rains and caravan runs
how the night hid the day
and the price one paid
the cost of an early grave.
And if you listened you’d not hear a word
only the song of the birds
nothing he said could be heard
for the language he spoke was in code
when he cleared his throat
eyes wide mouth shut
whispered from the bottom of a rut
a thousand words in each glance
a thousand more in his stance
words he spoke in a chant.

Every day under the sun
he speaks in a foreign tongue
learned when he was young
a story heard by none
told in his eyes the way he walks
from a man who seldom talks.

He had lain there all night,

played dead as the NVA moved among them.

Univers
Ebooks
Livres audio
Presse
Podcasts
BD
Documents

The Valley of Sorrows , livre ebook

General officer

Poetry

General

War

YouScribe

Le catalogue

Le service

Les conditions