Goodnight, Saigon

I think we’re coming home tomorrow, least that’s what they’re telling us. But they’ve told us these things before. It’s not so much that they lie, but seeing as it takes so long to prep an evac in this sweatbox shit hole, that by the time the moment actually comes, we’re needed again. It’s an odd way to keep up moral. I don’t blame them, no more then I blame myself for going down and signing up for this crap. I tell you, it’s an odd feeling not knowing why you are somewhere. It’s not like wandering off on purpose and suddenly realizing you have no idea where you are. I know where I am, just not why. Luckily, I seldom have time to reflect on such musings anymore though, with so few of us left, the workload has become nearly unbearable. Since we lost Frankie on Tuesday, I’ve taken up most of the radio duties. Why we even have it is a mystery to me, no one ever answers. Sometimes I wonder if it is simply a comfort tool, something we lug around with no particular purpose than to make us believe that someone, anyone, is at the other end of the line. If we don’t get out of here as planned, I think I’ll make a call next week. It would be nice to talk to someone else on my birthday, someone not knee deep in bodies and covered in mud. Someone sitting by a cozy fire in a robe and slippers. I hope someone answers. After all, turning eighteen is a pretty big deal. I feel I should share it with someone. Anyone.