Rear gate from a smaller support unit compound to the 101st Airmobile's PX,
with guard shack and PSP over the minefield visible -- open for daytime use,
Phu Bai, Thua Thien Province, 1971.
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Easter Sunday,
1971
I stepped out in crisp fatigues
over well-washed skin.
Monsoons were done:
the level gravel cradled
only an occasional puddle:
the barbed wire at the roadside
stood dusted grey.
From the mess hall
it was two miles across base to the Chapel --
but after six weeks out on the hill,
even that length of level ground
invited walking . . . .
A few yards in front of the Chapel
stood the shell of a battle tank --
hatches welded shut --
mounted on a concrete slab.
Between it and the Chapel steps
stood a flagpole ringed with white stones --
the one directly on line
between the pole and the tank
stood waist high
and bore the tank unit's insignia.
The Chapel signboard said
I was an hour early.
I could wait.
It was good
just to be out of the underground bunkers.
On the hour, the door opened.
I slid into a pew
while the Chaplain's assistant
set up the pulpit wares
and warmed up the midget organ.
Others drifted in.
The Chaplain appeared from a side door.
He ran us through a couple gospel songs
and passed the plate,
read some scripture,
then preached his way
from the loathesome sin God's Law exposed
on to the punishing fire and brimstone.
I leafed through the hymnal some,
and stared at the colored plastic
stuck over the windows.
The Chaplain called for repentance
and waited for it to come forward
through another three verses of something,
then announced his evening service:
Tonight, he said, I'll have communion
with any one of you who can prove to me
that you've been born again;
that you belong to what I know to be
a Bible-believing church back home;
that you are presently walking in faith;
that you have not backslid into sin
and have no hidden sins
separating you from God right now.
He closed his eyes for his benediction.
We stared at him --
all us murderers and thieves and drunks
and whoremongers and pimps
and pushers and addicts --
when he was done,
we shuffled out.
The empty tank
still sat defending against the east,
and under the limp flag
the battalion seal
still covered that big whitewashed rock.
A guy could shove all day
and never budge that stone.
(c) Copyright R. S.
Carlson 1978
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