Tall Grass

The sunrise was not spectacular. It was gray and dull. The monsoon was to blame for the lack of significant splendor as the monsoon was just being the monsoon and the monsoon was not spectacular. It was just bringing the rain.

The Fire Base onto which the rain fell was on top of a low hill in I Corps, Republic of Vietnam. Near the south gate there was a canvas tarpaulin stretched above and between four wooden poles and, under the tarpaulin, an American soldier laid his pack on the damp ground and sipped coffee from a tin cup. The soldier’s uniform was new and clean and the canvas on his jungle boots was bright green. The nametag sewn above the soldier’s shirt pocket read "MAJEWSKI" and, in rank, he was a Private First Class.

The soldier watched the eastern sky for a few minutes and listened to the rain. He seemed to be quietly bringing the morning into himself with his senses. He concentrated on each sound and on each sight and on each smell until that solitude was broken by the arrival of another soldier.

"Where’re the others?" Majewski asked.

"I talked to Burke a couple of minutes ago," the soldier said, "and he said the rest are finishin’ chow."

"Where did ya see Burke?"

"Down by the mess hall. I think he went to take a leak or else he’s gettin’ some ammo."

Majewski turned and watched the sky lighten while he waited for the other soldiers in the platoon to gather under the tarpaulin. The arrival of each soldier was announced by the sounds boots make when men walk through mud and by equipment noises and by complaints about the weather. The last soldier to arrive was a Staff Sergeant and he was holding a piece of soggy white paper.

"Listen up men," the Staff Sergeant said. "We’ve got a couple of new guys with us today to take the place of whoever it was that got killed the last time we were out."

One of the soldiers said "Crandal."

The Sergeant remained quiet for a few seconds and then repeated what the soldier had said. "Crandal. Yes. Crandal. Randall Crandal. Randy Crandy. Randy Candy."

Someone under the tarpaulin said quietly, "he was all right."

"Anyway, " the Sergeant continued, "for you new guys, I’m Sergeant Jackson and for you old guys...." Jackson looked at the piece of paper...."one of these guys is PFC Noland and the other one is PFC....Majen.....Mahjew....."

"Majewski. Pronounced mah-jes-key. The ‘w’ is silent."

Sergeant Jackson slowly lowered the paper.

"Are you a Jew, boy?"

"No," answered Majewski.

"Catholic?"

"No. I’m an anesthetist."

Jackson stared at Majewski. He seemed to know that whatever Majewski had claimed to be may not have had anything to do with Religion but he was not certain so he glared at Majewski and said "Don’t be givin’ me no shit. I don’t need no shit from you. You jus’ do what I say and everything’ill be fine. If I need to know your name I’ll learn it but, for now, you ain’t nothin’ and you don’t know nothin’."

Majewski said nothing.