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My tour wasn’t up and if I was declared fit to serve I might be sent back to Vietnam, and I wasn’t going back, not after what I saw in that tunnel. I was on the mend, which was a blessing and a curse. But I didn’t care, it was far enough away from the main buildings that I didn’t have to hear the poor bastards screaming for their mothers every night. It was some type of disused asylum ward, a total wreck, it only had maybe 15 patients, mostly guys with minor injuries. I was actually happy when, due to overcrowding I was transferred to a much older building in the complex. The hospital was dangerously overcrowded, at night the screaming of the other patients was horrendous and the stench reminded me of that fucking tunnel. They managed to pull most of the bits of shrapnel out of my torso over two operations. I survived, and for my trouble I got a ticket home, well I say home, but I really I got a ticket to a military hospital called “Camp Zama” in Japan.
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The claymore blew the rookies legs off and lodged a bunch of metal and bone fragments in the side of my torso.
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About a month after that, I was on a search and destroy mission when a rookie stepped over a VC tripwire, the tripwire was connected to one of our own captured claymores. Both of us were transferred into two separate regular platoons in the mechanized infantry. The short story is, after the incident in the tunnels west of Da Nang, Benoit and I were a little messed up, so we were useless for tunnel work. I also won’t ever refer to it as “Nam”, as I found after returning home, it’s the rear echelon assholes who spent the war pencil pushing who most like to put on a husky voice and say “Nam”, in some deep and mournful way. I told you already I wouldn’t bore you with most of the details of my time in Vietnam.