From: jewell@mace.cc.purdue.edu (Larry Jewell)
Newsgroups: alt.war.vietnam
Subject: Re: Falsity of "live MIA/POW evidence" (was Re: FOREVER GONE)
Date: 20 Dec 92 01:19:35 GMT
Organization: Purdue University


In article <BzJ3tB.H0H@cs.uiuc.edu> drk@cs.uiuc.edu (David Kohr) writes:

>I have great respect for US and Vietnamese veterans, especially former
>POW's, who don't harbor any hatred toward their enemy.  I can see now that
>this respect shouldn't apply to all US veterans.

Respect?  Yes, I hate the government of Vietnam, and the enclosed story,
written by a friend of mine who got killed in Veitnam and died last month
tells about one of them I had and have a special hatred for.  The enemy
who fought that war are the ones who are ruling Veitnam today, and they
encouraged and nutured the VC this story is about.

(If you don't have a strong stomach, skip this story.  It's not for wimps.)


	It comes to me in my dreams.

	The clump of huts. The steam that passes for air.  The 
lack of female voices contrasted with the sound of male 
voices filled with tension.  In the midst of it all, a voice 
that would freeze flame solid, it's so cold.

	"Choose!"

	The woman's eyes look out of a sea of wrinkles, into 
eyes that tell her here's no more hope.  Her gods have all 
been replaced by this one man who will destroy her universe.

	"Choose one!"

	She looks at the two men before her.  One had lain 
between her loins, the other had emerged from between them.

	"Choose one or they both die."

	Her new god stands beside her men and points at first 
one and then the other with slow, dreadful swings of his 
hand.  The pointing finger actually points to the ground.  
It has been broken at the second joint and healed badly.

	"Choose one or they both die, and your whole family 
with them."

	Husband, son, family.  Her new god must truly hate her 
to make such a demand of her.  Let fate decide, and her 
karma will be less harmed on the next turn of the wheel.  
She takes a pebble in her hand, closes her eyes and tosses 
it in the general direction of the two men she loves most.  
With her eyes still closed she hears her son's voice as he 
curses the pebble that has hit him.  She thinks that keeping 
her eyes closed forever would be so nice right now, but she 
opens them and looks at her oldest child.

	"Goodbye, my son."

	"Goodbye, mother."

	A quick glance at her husband.  The face that has been 
beside hers every night for thirty years in torn between 
relief and sorrow.  The relief fades as quickly as it comes 
as he contemplates what is yet to come.

	The dreadful god turns to his men and says, "Take the 
younger."

	Four men grab the son, handling him roughly even though 
he doesn't resist.  Inside the waist-high fence, shoved to 
the ground, and tied to stakes in the ground, the son says 
nothing, his eyes avoiding contact with the people of his 
village who have been pushed around the pen.

	"A lesson will be learned here today.  Remember it!"

	The god's voice has grow, impossibly, colder.

	He nods at the man who has remained inside the pen.  A 
long, sharp knife with a black handle and the words "ECCO" 
stamped on the blade moves to the son's stomach and digs in 
just below the heart.  The blade slices about one-half inch 
deep and then moves downward.

	When you're dead, there's no longer a need for dignity.  
The son knew this (he was learning many things very rapidly 
now) and didn't hold back his screams.

	The knife stops just above the pubis, and the point 
moves to the navel to make a cut outward to each side.

	The old woman was now praying that her son would die 
quickly, for the worst was yet to come.

	The man in the pen looked at the death god, who nodded.  
Words would have been useless at this point, the son's voice 
was using up a lifetime of words in just a few minutes.

	The man opened up part of the fence that was dividing 
the pen into two parts and the pigs rush forward.

	It comes to me in my dreams.

	When I can't fight my way back to sleep I get up and go 
downstairs to the old trunk in the basement.  I know the 
padlock's combination by feel, I don't even have to look at 
the numbers so there's no need to turn on the light.

	There's the little wooden box I bought on Magsaysay, in 
Olongapo, a long time ago.  In side is the only thing about 
that place that makes me feel better at times like this.

	It's three finger bones, with one joint showing a old 
break that has frozen it into a ninety degree bend.  The 
bones show marks, like someone, or something, has chewed on 
them.

	
-- 
#L.W. Jewell Moderator at the Veterans Information Site (veteran@cc.purdue.edu)#
#& WWII-L Listowner: "Sunday's horoscope is note worthy because of its strange,#
#sudden and wholly unpredictable and inexplicable occurrences, affecting all   #
#phases of life." "Your Horoscope" L.A. Evening Herald Express, Sat, 12/06/41  #