6 thoughts on “1047r – I do not know whether to cheer or to cry: Bruce Jewett slices a bit of sideways art and turns it into truth!

  1. Ah. J, I do enjoy your diatribes …reminds me of a hyper articulate bobcat Goldwaith …and good job chanting Nam Myoho Renge Kyo to decline your sapper’s invitation to Valhalla. Insistent bloke, wasn’t he? The chanting works!

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    • mostly just for peace – mine and theirs and the occasional universe or seven – but with issues I swipe your side of Bobcat: I’s more lynxlike I deem. Bobcats are messy – ok, sometimes I store, involuntarily I plead but rarely successfully, lunch and sometimes supper in my below-chin plate. Breakfast leavings often find a spare lip or even a mustachio currently out-of-work. Me? Hyper? Not my purely pacific self, surely. I enthuse by nature and hyper evokes a manic side rarely seen in any of my zero mirrors upon which I can’t gaze. Didn’t mind being dead at all, even if but for a nano, but alive and underfire truly is no way to awaken. Never noticed if I pissed myself: but everywhere I tasted I got copper. So, I got up: found a flak jacket for a helmet and, curiously since my glasses I wore abed – in de’Nahmb, one learns to assume a crossed-ankle sleeping position without moving, hands upon chest and both rifle and Randall bowie at reach – I could see clearly: traumatic return to non-nearsightedness? I knew I was useless on-the-line and saw the mortar team with which I had slumbered at work pumping out 60mm illum rounds like ban sidhe collecting souls and I looked down at my jungle-booted feet (they never came off except to apply another coat of beef tallow to my bare tootsies and heels – a trick learned from L.B. Puller’s days in Nicaragua from his Bio: no blisters and near waterproof!) and saw distinctly a hand holding an NVA tin-can pull-string grenade without its owner: and, yes, I was holding a ’16 and a bandoleer of 5.56mm-round magazines (just in case I needed protection from the element(al)s, and began a stealthy as not-all-hell highstep walk through some concertina barbed wire – what!? No Tanglefoot! Oh, joy, calloo, callay! – and did a quick scan to see if that big rock-shaped thing was the platoon CP bunker (which had more than one course of sandbags and looked like the Army built it when they had this southern extremity of I-Corps in their quite (Americal “MurderCal” hands a couple of years before). Yep. A flash of incoming heavy artillery lit my world.- still did not hear anything. Oh, Fornicate! I’s deef! Dumb already proven! Finally 5th Marines arty on the job ringing our little patch of joyland with flying steel to keep the guest list comfortable. I reached the bunker’s jog-twist entry and yelled: “Marine! Comin’ In!” and filled the final passage into a Dantean Dream. A guy with blood still streaming off his face manning a radio bank…was he talking? I guess. His lips moved. He never looked up. The Staff who welcomed me to hill 52 (or was it 25?) had a shotgun levelled at my gut which he swung away. Smiled. “Hey, J” I saw his lips move. “Told ya’ we’d get hit tonight!” He was one of the few Golf Company Marines who knew I had saved his sunffy’s asses when I held out for three or four months until I got my transactional immunity for the July 10 incident in Arizona Territory (the photo went worldwide and caused me to talk telephonically with CMC a second time during my tour) when I inconvenienced ONI (pre-NIS still I believe) by saying I couldn’t really pick out anyone in the picture because all the shot showed was the final four or five inches of M-16 and one hand holding an open bandoleer big safety pin just about to stick a stripped-naked chest right near the nipple, and besides I had been in The Bush for near 60 days straight before the incident with three or four diferent battalion’s companies and platoons and the day after, after escorting the NVA prisoner at Randall Knife-point aboard the CH-46 – since I did not want to shoot through said Mr. Charles whilst aboard a flying object – and after a shower, change, beer and steak went straight back for another 30 days or so of bush-hopping with so many different platoons and squads from a plethora of different companies and battalions – and why don’t you go read my releases and look at the pics and that could give you a better chronology than I could after so many silent months? So, the culprits skated. But the company CO and the Battalion Commander held forth I was a Commie Sympathizer at the very best and much worse, a poor pencil-pushing REMF who snuck out of his cage to bedevil their nice, sane, orderly war!


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