Right outside our barracks, it's raining. The creek is high beside the railroad tracks beside our LZ. It's been raining for the last few days here; I fucking hate this place.
We blew the railroad last week. Scotts pulled a few pillars out of a bridge down between a few mountains east of here, along the coast, by Phan Thiet. Shit looks like a tornado went through it.
I'd say that we won't see many of those motherfuckers, for some time, at least. As soon as they do show up, they're good as dead either way.
It's easy to sleep now that I'm not so worried, I guess. The water trickles by the tower a few yards away; the train has stopped rushing by at all hours. But I can't sleep up here, though. I'd be put on ricer duty or town patrol or some stupid shit like that.
I get to thinking, to keep my mind around.
I think of Hendrix; remember that back home, my girl really digs him. She knows that I don't get him much, too, and doesn't mention rock or marijuana much in her letters.
“We aren't getting out of here anytime soon,” she wrote to me once.
I asked in my letter back, “Out of where?”, wondering how our situations were similar.
In a few weeks, all she sent back was, “Life, I guess.”
The more I think about it, it just seems like the more gooks I kill, the less I understand about women.