Song for Night

Fear Is an Open Hand Beating over the Heart

There are many things about John Wayne that I despised, but this I admired: the man had no fear. It was almost as though the word, or the concept, was foreign to him. He was obviously too old and big to be a mine diffuser, but he was always up there at the front with us, risking his life, spraying the enemy with his weapon of choice, the squat ugly Israeli Uzi.

“The perfect weapon,” he would say. “Not much to look at, easy to handle, and deadlier than anything else out there. Like me.” This was followed with a big laugh, the kind of head-thrown-back, I-am-full-of-life laugh. Sometimes he would have a bottle of beer balanced precariously on his head and he would forget and throw his head back, sending the bottle crashing. These are the sounds that remind me of him: the high-pitched metallic spitting of his Uzi, the deep laugh, and the sound of breaking glass.

I remember one time a few weeks after we had just left camp; we were pinned down by heavy enemy fire from a gun we would later know as the M60. While all the other platoon leaders were hiding or taking cover, John Wayne spotted the gun encampment and, standing up, he ran straight for it, stopping less than ten yards from it to throw three grenades. As he hit the deck, the explosion sent bits of gun and men flying over him.

“There are only two things a man should fear,” he told me once. “God and women. That’s all.” Then he laughed; John Wayne a.k.a., Major Essien. Now I know he couldn’t have been a real major. Majors don’t lead platoons, lieutenants do. I wonder why I kept him out of my mental roll call that night.

The only other person who seemed immune to fear was Ijeoma. Maybe it is no coincidence they are both dead. Now though, as I embark across the river of the dead in a coffin, I wish for some of their fearlessness.

It is useless; I am shivering like a wet cat.