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Fireflies
Standing guard in the wee hours of the morning on the
bow of the repair boat barge I was stationed on, was eerie, to say the
least. You could never relax. Stories were told in the chow hall of Viet
Cong frogmen who traveled across the small bay we were moored in, using
hollow bamboo reeds to breathe through. Like ghosts, they appeared when
a soldier's guard was down. The only sound during this watch was the faint
lapping of waves against the barge's hull and the steady thump thump thump
of my heart. In
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Vietnam Ruminations
- Robert
D. Wilson
Copyright Robert D. Wilson, 2003