Kuvakäsikirjoitus Teksti
- I remember Norman Bowker and Henry Dobbins playing checkers every evening before dark
- What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end:
- Like when Ted Lavender went too heavy on the tranquilizers.
- The bad stuff never stopped happening: it lives in it's own dimension, replaying itself over and over
- But the war wasn't all that way.
- Mellow, man. We got ourselves a nice mellow war today.
- How's the war today?
- And like the time that we enlisted an old poppa-san to guide us through the mine fields out on the Batangan Peninsula
- I'll tell you something O'Brien. If I could have one wish, anything, I'd wish for my dad to write me a letter and say it's okay if I don't win any medals. That's all my old man talks about, nothing else. How he can't wait to see my goddamn medals.
- Norman Bowker lying on his back one night, watching the stars, then whispering to me,
- A red clay trail outside the village of My Khe.A hand grenade.A slim, dead, dainty young man of about Twenty.Kiowa saying, "No Choice, Tim. What else could you do?"Kiowa saying, "Right?"Kiowa saying, "Talk to me."
- Forty-three years old, and the war occured half a lifetime ago, and yet the remembering makes it now. And sometimes remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
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