A Sign of the Times

A body of a dead VC Sapper stood upright,

impaled in the layers of concertina wire

marking the no-man’s land that surrounds

the perimeter of a firebase north of Danang.

Killed trying to penetrate the base’s defenses,

his catatonic body had been adorned,

by holiday revelers,

with Christmas balls, tinsel, and a sign,

soiled with blood and entrails,

wishing all a joyful and Merry Christmas

from Victor Charlie.

As we passed by and entered the base,

few even took notice.

I heard one young Marine,

eighteen years old and newly arrived in country,

whisper to no one in particular,

“Ho, fucking ho, fucking Ho.”

We had grown indifferent to death and to human suffering

The innocence of youth dies quickly

when killing becomes a rite of passage.

copyright © Camillo Bica