A QUIET DAY IN VIETNAM
The air is clear and crisp, cool but not cold The sun, peeking over the mountains, bathes the valley and hillsides with the soft glow of morning. A new day has begun in Vietnam
The terraced fields on the hillsides already bustling with activity, as the Vietnam! ese go about their daily chores. From a distance, the workers look like animated figurine! and a man watering his crops becomes a picturesque Oriental fountain.
Lying in the valley below the fields is a town, complimenting the pretty countryside with a beauty all its own. Its pleasant countenance smiles as the sunlight softly seeps down the mountainside and gently splashes against the clean, colorful buildings. The town is busy, but quietly so, and what hustle the: is does not seem to disturb the subdued nature of the surroundings.
In marked contrast to the rest of th apparently tranquil setting is "The Hill," home of both American and South Vietnamese military units. Rows of barbed wire streak along the perimeter of the base, not seeming to care that their presence is a scornful intrusion on the vegetation below. Sandbags are everywhere: providing protection for the artillery pieces; serving as an outer layer for the flimsy, vulnerable buildings; and forming the bunkers that ring the camp.
The day passes quietly, but with the onset of dusk a change comes over the base. For ii is during darkness, especially late at night that the Viet Cong are more likely to strike. Floodlights illuminate the barbed wire with a harsh, glaring brightness, and the base takes on the appearance of a grim stage, with the guards and duty officers ready to play their respective roles. But there is no show tonight. The hours slip by peacefully, and the silence is broken only by sporadic machine gun fire in the distance and an occasional illumination round or flare sent up to check the darkness.
Perhaps someday peace will come to Vietnam, and the area now occupied by howitzers and bunkers will once more be in tune with its surroundings. Perhaps someday the shrill, staccato sounds of war will be but dim memories, to be replaced by the sigh of a gentle wind and the soft murmur of a contented land. Someday, perhaps, but not today, or tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that...
The regular season is over again and we're off to Duke for some graduate work Relax, keep straight, and I sure hope someone locates Toad before September.
