Dry Rain (a short story on the Vietnam War)

Dry Rain
(“It never rains on the Army,” 1971-1984)




“Papa,” the little ten-year old boy said, “what was war like after all the folks in America started hating the GI’s for going to Vietnam during the 60s and 70s?”
The father didn’t answer right away. He sat at the kitchen table, moved his coffee cup so it wasn’t in the way, and his son was completely visible to him, his military dress greens in the closet, put away forever.
“One day I was in San Francisco, working as a dress designer, doing quite well, back in 1971, not a father yet, as you know, but thinking of becoming one someday, as was a few of my friends, all of us in our early twenties. Then three-months later, I was training to kill folks over in South East Asia, taking some military active duty courses, and I really didn’t know yet what was what—that was back when they had the draft, in ‘69. They always told us in the Army, ‘Keep going, it never rains on the Army, if you feel wet, it’s an illusion…!”
The child didn’t answer the father. The cup of coffee sat still on the table and didn’t rattle while they both moved their hands and forearms loosely about on the table some, looked at one another. He pulled out his wallet; there was a blurred old photograph in it, now thirteen-years old. The cold two faces on the picture were of two handsome and young and rain soaked soldiers. And he knew—as he showed the picture to his boy—the other face which he had not seen for a long, very long time, and would never see in person again, and really did not want to see on the photo, the face he had once seen everyday in war, a little older face than his, and neither his nor the other soldier’s face were triumphal as they were supposed to have looked, had been blotted out forever on the face of the earth; one of the many destructions of the war, of human anguish and spilt blood.”
The boy said, “You both look tired!”
“What son?” the father said. “What did you say?”
“Tired dad, you look so tired…!” repeated the boy.
“When we came upon the rice fields, we couldn’t see very well in front of us, the rain was so heavy, coming down like cats and dogs, the whole area was drenched with rain beneath us, above us, all around us—it was a hard roaring, never silent harsh rain, it washed everything, held us in postponement, everything was shadows, we were going to withdraw, and the Vietcong rushed upward in soundless inflexibility of the rain, and the sergeant in the picture tumbled backwards and was looking up into the sky as if he had still glass eyes.”
“I thought it didn’t rain on the Army, pa?” said the little boy.
“Is that what I said?” answered the father.

No: 565 (1-11-2009) ••