A .45 in the Face

“selective focus photography of man holding pistol” by xandtor on Unsplash

There were several stories you told about Vietnam that almost ended me. Or, I should say almost ended you thereby assuring I would have never existed. This time it was for a pair of socks. You’d returned to the barracks to get the green wool ones, warmer in the skin drenching monsoons while on guard duty. A drunk Green Beret is sitting on your bunk when you return. Dead cold eyes regard you, track you, so you ask him nicely to move so you can get your socks. And fast as a cobra strike, there’s a cocked pistol jammed in your face.

Urine ran down your leg, but it was so humid any sweat down your spine would have just blended. You said you didn’t know how long you stood there stock still like you were already a corpse; hunched over, halfway to your foot locker with that black pistol in your face, an inch from your nose.

Then there was a friend. His friend? Your friend? It didn’t fucking matter. The voice was calm enough to soothe the wild demons back into their dark caves. You got your socks, put them on over your boots, and spent your guard duty in pissed stained fatigues.

too late to understand
when the rabid dog’s bite comes
well before his bark

A .45 in the Face was originally published in The Creative Cafe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.