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GryGoast -> The Last Gun Fighter (3/2/2007 6:49:49 AM)
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The Last Gun Fighter
By Master GryGoast
Long ago and far away... in that other future time that my country called Vietnam. A young boy of blue eyes and an innocent heart, idealistic in the tradition of his father and his father before him left the land and rivers and lakes of his birth, that he loved so much, and sought his test of manhood, to reap the fruit of his destiny. As he boarded the bus that was to take him to his fate, his father said good-bye with a handshake and words of praise, like Patriot and Duty and Honor. My father was also a plan and simple man... his greatest pride in life were his sons... so you see , how could I not. With the pride for me shining in my fathers eyes, and utterly no idea of the terror and horror that awaited me, I left my wonderful life in the forest that I love so much... never to return, whole and complete again.
Vietnam was the great gushing wound that bled the innocents from my country. You must understand the American heart to realize the depth of this great tragedy. For you see, the American people are, at their core, innocent and naive in the ways of the wider world. We believe that we are not gods chosen few, but rather that, bye and large, we are kind, and decent people, generous to a fault, and to us this is a great pride. Vietnam was the terror, the horror that haunts a child’s sleep, even today. It was the meat grinder that consumed our bravest, our best, our brightest, and returned nothing but the agony of a mother’s hart, broken by the lost son.
My service was common, aboard the beast of steel and armor, flesh and fear... and yes… from time to time, uncommon valor and courage, a light cruiser of WW II vintage, A noble ship having a long and distinguish career. The Battle of Layette Gulf, The Battle of Okinawa, Battle Honors won during Korea and Vietnam of course.
Dear innocent one... how could you possibly know. A ship is a miraculous thing, it is more than it's parts of steel and cable and engines from which it is assembled. At sea, it is living thing, it breathes, it pumps its lifeblood through veins and arteries of iron. It sings as it cuts the waves upon its appointed task... The trawler to harvest the bounty of the sea that god has provided, feeding the hungry multitudes ... the beast of burden, delivering the fruits of men's labors far and wide. Ah... but a combat ship at sea, now that is something ethereal... Sleek and lean, fast and agile, heavily armored and heavily armed. A thing of grace and beauty.... and awesome power. It is small wonder to me, that men would fight and bleed and die, without hesitation to protect her, to defend her, to uphold her honor.
We came around the headlands, at full battle speed. The task force led by my warrior queen of steel and fire. Her entourage of destroyers, charging, fast upon her wake, out-riders, protecting her flanks. It was a small place on the map, Dong Hoy perhaps... or maybe Vinn... One of the old defended French ports. The iron dogs of the towns defenses barked and snarled there defiance at our violation of the home waters, we returned as good as we got... like prize fighters standing toe to toe, exchanging punches. Our guns so hot the paint was burned away, the pounding throb of the engines under full strain, the beat of the air circulation... the smell of fear and terror in the air, and yes dear reader, above it all.... the guns.
Salvo after Salvo...
the rattle of spent shell cases
the whine of the rammer seating the next shell
the slam of the breach block
the recoil of the guns themselves
And then, to do it again... and again... and again.
Loader crews tested to their limits and beyond. Men straining past exhaustion, yet could seek no rest, our magnificent Queen of steel, our lover, our mistress must be defended above all other considerations.
Then it happened… the skill of our adversary’s gunners, or luck, or the hand of fate… I do not know. The shell struck deep, into the bowels of my beautiful ship. From my station in the gun house I could here the sounds of the rape of my perfect lover, the scream of tortured metal, the protest of broken machines, the cries of wounded men, (boys really), calling for the comfort of there mother’s caress. Now there was only escape. Like angered wasp around the queen of the smashed hive… our destroyer rallied to our aid. The shore batteries, now like the wolf pack that smells the blood of the wounded stag, intensified and concentrated there fire, seeking the killing blow. The air was filled with shot and shell, ours and theirs. Three more ships were struck, intercepting shells meant for us. When at last we were out of range, all turn to the fires. It would be three days before the fires would be out, and another five days to collect and bury the dead. I sustained shrapnel wounds, to my arm, my face.
Alas... its the wound to my heart that will not heal... what elixer do I seek for that?
Godspeed
Master Gry
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