Terry Sako
kickbox
Greetings,
I have written a story about my experiences in the Vietnam War; titled 395and a Wake Up. A story of an ordinary, nineteen year old Marine in an extra-ordinary conflict. Much like what is happening today, in Iraq.
This a novel about war. Old hat? Maybe. But I tried to tell the story about as gut-level as was possible . . . as I lived it. No heroics. I was scared out of my gourd, but did the best as was humanly possible. Heck, I was just a kid.
When I penned this book, the words were like a flashback to me, and that was no mean feat. For three decades I did my best to blackout any and all memories
I sincerely hope you will take an interest.
Please see my home page for reviews.
Thank you.
Excerpt:
I sat in the belly of a behemoth as it advanced slowly along, bouncing in my seat whenever it lumbered over a depression. Across the aisle, separated from us lowly enlisted men, I heard one officer comment to another, “I remember landing here in the early years when the runway was as smooth as rice paper, and now it’s a network of patched-over holes from mortar and rocket attacks.” He breathed a long sigh. “This is now the fourth year of our involvement in this quote police action unquote, and I fail to see any military gain, only escalation Stateside, we load enormous troop transports such as this one, then unload our soldiers in this godforsaken country to sweat, no pun intended, out their tours. Then we reload the fortunate survivors and fly them back the other way. Aircraft traversing the International Date Line on a daily basis, with no end in sight. It is all so frustrating, at times I’d like to suggest to the Joint Chiefs—”
“But you won’t, major. That’s a surefire way to stall, if not end, your career. No one at the Pentagon is interested in your recommendations, and least of all, your personal opinions.”
Another sigh. “I suppose not, colonel.”
“Remember at all times, you and I are fact finders, not . . . policy makers.”
“Yes sir.”
I glanced covertly at the two of them, then put my eyes back to the front. Officers are gods, and one does not eyeball a deity. The plane hit another rut, made a sharp right turn, then braked to a stop. The pilot cut the power to the turbines and they whined to silence. Then his voice rang out nasally over the intercom, “To the men of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines I bid you welcome to the Da Nang air base, Republic of South Vietnam. The time 1515 hours, the temperature is, shall we say, an inconceivable eighty degrees for the month of February. . . . Considering that I grew up in Minnesota.”
After a moment he continued, “Officers will deplane first, followed by senior noncommissioned officers, then junior NCO’s . . . then the rest.”
Someone behind me mumbled, “I’ve got your rest hangin’ right here.”
“I hope to see everyone again in 365 days. Except for the marines who always need to be one up. I will see you in 395. Enjoy your stay in exotic Southeast Asia.”
I was pondering the fact that it was not my idea to be “one up” when the cabin lights went off, and the after-cargo ramp began to lower with a hydraulic hum. Like a curtain opening on a premiere movie, I waited for the scenes about to unfold.
The first assault on my senses came from an intense, blinding light that made me wince and turn my head away. Next came an oven heat set on broil. Tangible and oppressive, it flowed into the plane and gobbled up the cool, oxygenated air.
Lastly, came a smell I can only describe as follows: A combination of feces and garbage. Fear. And meat long since dead.
With the latter in mind, I clutched my M-14 for comfort, but that was short-lived when I remembered it was empty. They had issued no ammo back in the states, during the numerous refueling stops, or prior to landing. I looked across the aisle again, spotted the colonel, and worked up the nerve to speak. “Ah . . . sir?”
Frosty-eyed, he stared at me, and I feared his wrath from having dared to cross the vast gulf of enlisted to officer, and address him.
“What is it, Marine?”
“Sir, I have no ammunition for my weapon.”
He stood, a leather briefcase in hand, and stepped into the aisle. “That will be issued to you upon arrival at your next unit.” He looked to his aide and said curtly, “Major,” then walked away, the minion in tow.
I wanted to share my concerns about what could happen between here and there, but he gave me no chance, already moving fast toward the exit. So I waited, occupying myself by drumming my fingers on my knee. When it was finally my turn, I got up wearily, grabbed my useless hunk of iron and 782 web gear, and trudged down the aisle.
Outside, to my surprise, the airport sprawled on flat prairie that stretched into the distance where heat-misted mountains squatted menacingly, looking like homes for gnomes. I had expected jungle, flora and fauna straight out of Sabu the Elephant Boy.
Everywhere, there was motion. Fighter jets, loaded with bombs, took off with roars and others, empty, landed with screeching / smoking tires and billowing parachutes. Helicopters, adorned with large red crosses, clattered overhead, landed, and disgorged litters to ambulances, with white crosses, that sped away. Jeeps carrying pilots to and from their aircraft buzzed by like bumblebees. Fuel trucks crisscrossed the tarmac. Another troop transport landed with a fresh load of bodies.
I joined the other new arrivals who stood in formation waiting for commands to put them in motion, and gave myself the once over lightly. My helmet, pack, and web gear smelled warehouse fresh. My uniform was brand spanking new, clean and pressed. My boots were shined to an inch of their lives. I was a bouquet of canvas, cloth, leather, and steel. Add to that a freshly shaved face and recent haircut and clean fingernails.
All duded up and decked out for a funeral I thought to myself.
I have written a story about my experiences in the Vietnam War; titled 395and a Wake Up. A story of an ordinary, nineteen year old Marine in an extra-ordinary conflict. Much like what is happening today, in Iraq.
This a novel about war. Old hat? Maybe. But I tried to tell the story about as gut-level as was possible . . . as I lived it. No heroics. I was scared out of my gourd, but did the best as was humanly possible. Heck, I was just a kid.
When I penned this book, the words were like a flashback to me, and that was no mean feat. For three decades I did my best to blackout any and all memories
I sincerely hope you will take an interest.
Please see my home page for reviews.
Thank you.
Excerpt:
I sat in the belly of a behemoth as it advanced slowly along, bouncing in my seat whenever it lumbered over a depression. Across the aisle, separated from us lowly enlisted men, I heard one officer comment to another, “I remember landing here in the early years when the runway was as smooth as rice paper, and now it’s a network of patched-over holes from mortar and rocket attacks.” He breathed a long sigh. “This is now the fourth year of our involvement in this quote police action unquote, and I fail to see any military gain, only escalation Stateside, we load enormous troop transports such as this one, then unload our soldiers in this godforsaken country to sweat, no pun intended, out their tours. Then we reload the fortunate survivors and fly them back the other way. Aircraft traversing the International Date Line on a daily basis, with no end in sight. It is all so frustrating, at times I’d like to suggest to the Joint Chiefs—”
“But you won’t, major. That’s a surefire way to stall, if not end, your career. No one at the Pentagon is interested in your recommendations, and least of all, your personal opinions.”
Another sigh. “I suppose not, colonel.”
“Remember at all times, you and I are fact finders, not . . . policy makers.”
“Yes sir.”
I glanced covertly at the two of them, then put my eyes back to the front. Officers are gods, and one does not eyeball a deity. The plane hit another rut, made a sharp right turn, then braked to a stop. The pilot cut the power to the turbines and they whined to silence. Then his voice rang out nasally over the intercom, “To the men of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines I bid you welcome to the Da Nang air base, Republic of South Vietnam. The time 1515 hours, the temperature is, shall we say, an inconceivable eighty degrees for the month of February. . . . Considering that I grew up in Minnesota.”
After a moment he continued, “Officers will deplane first, followed by senior noncommissioned officers, then junior NCO’s . . . then the rest.”
Someone behind me mumbled, “I’ve got your rest hangin’ right here.”
“I hope to see everyone again in 365 days. Except for the marines who always need to be one up. I will see you in 395. Enjoy your stay in exotic Southeast Asia.”
I was pondering the fact that it was not my idea to be “one up” when the cabin lights went off, and the after-cargo ramp began to lower with a hydraulic hum. Like a curtain opening on a premiere movie, I waited for the scenes about to unfold.
The first assault on my senses came from an intense, blinding light that made me wince and turn my head away. Next came an oven heat set on broil. Tangible and oppressive, it flowed into the plane and gobbled up the cool, oxygenated air.
Lastly, came a smell I can only describe as follows: A combination of feces and garbage. Fear. And meat long since dead.
With the latter in mind, I clutched my M-14 for comfort, but that was short-lived when I remembered it was empty. They had issued no ammo back in the states, during the numerous refueling stops, or prior to landing. I looked across the aisle again, spotted the colonel, and worked up the nerve to speak. “Ah . . . sir?”
Frosty-eyed, he stared at me, and I feared his wrath from having dared to cross the vast gulf of enlisted to officer, and address him.
“What is it, Marine?”
“Sir, I have no ammunition for my weapon.”
He stood, a leather briefcase in hand, and stepped into the aisle. “That will be issued to you upon arrival at your next unit.” He looked to his aide and said curtly, “Major,” then walked away, the minion in tow.
I wanted to share my concerns about what could happen between here and there, but he gave me no chance, already moving fast toward the exit. So I waited, occupying myself by drumming my fingers on my knee. When it was finally my turn, I got up wearily, grabbed my useless hunk of iron and 782 web gear, and trudged down the aisle.
Outside, to my surprise, the airport sprawled on flat prairie that stretched into the distance where heat-misted mountains squatted menacingly, looking like homes for gnomes. I had expected jungle, flora and fauna straight out of Sabu the Elephant Boy.
Everywhere, there was motion. Fighter jets, loaded with bombs, took off with roars and others, empty, landed with screeching / smoking tires and billowing parachutes. Helicopters, adorned with large red crosses, clattered overhead, landed, and disgorged litters to ambulances, with white crosses, that sped away. Jeeps carrying pilots to and from their aircraft buzzed by like bumblebees. Fuel trucks crisscrossed the tarmac. Another troop transport landed with a fresh load of bodies.
I joined the other new arrivals who stood in formation waiting for commands to put them in motion, and gave myself the once over lightly. My helmet, pack, and web gear smelled warehouse fresh. My uniform was brand spanking new, clean and pressed. My boots were shined to an inch of their lives. I was a bouquet of canvas, cloth, leather, and steel. Add to that a freshly shaved face and recent haircut and clean fingernails.
All duded up and decked out for a funeral I thought to myself.
