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| adjunct, dermot mulroney, war, songs, peter dinklage, personal narrative non fiction, free us code, rini bell, armageddon, unreleased tupac lyric, television shows, jack nicholson, brian and justin, strictly 4 my, case law, big bang, by beth lapides, real audio, christin hinojosa, livingin oblivion (ws), graffiti, tour, skinheads, kurdish, | distant parts of the surrounding water, where he'd rush to see if there were any living beings to be found or any recognizable pieces to be salvaged from the wreckage. Sometimes there were; sometimes there weren't. Almost always, there would at least pictures be pieces pictures of aircraft and other debris floating around, or in the process of sinking. Pieces of those great and glorious machines that were pictures supposed to sail majestically on the air and carry people around safely. Sometimes there would be nothing at all except an unblemished carpet of water that stretched from horizon to horizon, hiding everything beneath its surface. Now, in this story, we aren't talking about an "in-country" vet; we need to state that right up front. We aren't talking about a real fighting man. We're talking about a fucking bystander, who only stepped foot on solid RVN to load body bags for burial at sea. We're talking about a fucking REMF who had a bunk and a chow line, a laundry and a shower; but who none the less seems to remember being there and feeling a profound sense of loss on many occasions. |
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| So, for instance, an REMF Mother Fucker to a grunt may only be an REMF mother fucker to the support artillery, or possibly only an REMF if they somehow work closely together. The point is, as standardized as the distinctions are, their application is a purely relative thing, although not completely arbitrary..... the Brass who sit in the Pentagon are REMF Mother Fuckers to everybody. personal narrative non fiction The conflict between vets and their personal application of REMF categories can be intense. It's easy to assume we all had it bad and others had it personal narrative non fiction easier. It's harder to stop and personal narrative non fiction understand the multitude of perspectives that exist. As has been said many time before, everybody's war was different. This is a story of a simple dude - an REMF to some; and REMF Mother Fucker to others - who never got any closer to a battle than slightly out of mortar range; who only watched as the tracers moved gracefully across the sky from ground to gun ship and back again; who sat in awe hundreds of yards off shore while hills burst into flame as incredibly fast moving jets skimmed treetops; whose soul dropped out through the bottom of his rib cage when the blinking lights of choppers where replaced by airborne balls of fire; who watched as smoking hunks of twisted metal arced across the sky into |
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