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Remembering:
the ‘cocky kids in green’:

I live among the remains of young dead men, their broken bodies twisting into the shape of where and how they die. Some curled up, some bent around the initial wound, others flat. They die in the open, often reaching for some reason, arms outstretched. They come in all sizes and colors. One has his first mustache, another too young to shave, a third can never grow a beard – he is Navajo.

They have verses on their steel: MoTown, Tex Mex, La Rasa, Born to Raise Hell, Peace, Love, War, Hate. Some believe in this war; some don’t. A freckle-faced young Marine asks me, ‘Why?’ Then he dies. That was then; this is now.

Why won’t these images fade? I can’t remember the face of someone I met at a party last week, but I can’t forget the faces of over 30 years ago. Only Jack found me and remembers. Where are all the others? Living well and happy, I hope. Camacho wrote for a while, then he too disappeared. Where is Terry? Where is Tim? Brownie was a good Marine. What happened to him? I’m still ‘Charlie Six Actual’ and always will be.

I received a letter from Puerto Rico. It was one of the few responses to 32 condolence letters. This young man’s dad said he was proud of me and proud of his son. A mother in St. Louis wrote and said she wasn’t allowed to open the box, but she was sure that her boy wasn’t in it. Well mom, someone’s son was in that box. I hope you treated him well.

I’m over sixty now, but age hasn’t dimmed the memory of those young men who believed that being a Marine was the fulfillment of a dream. Well the dream turned into a nightmare and to some the nightmare turned into death. Maybe they were the lucky ones. They don’t have to live with the memory of unfulfilled dreams and broken relationships. They don’t have to stare into the bottom of a glass and wonder what happened. They don’t have to serve time, or disgrace their families with their acts of violence. They don’t come to alert mode when a helicopter or a loud noise or a whisper disturbs their sleep. They are gone and I loved them all.

Some nights they call to me. Is it the dead or is it those who are still alive who call me? Someday maybe I’ll know. I still see the demons, but only at night now. A whisper hovers above my bed until I shout it away. A banshee walks in the yard. A crow sits on the fence and watches. Something is always behind me. I don’t usually turn around, but when I do it is gone.

Who picks who will live and die?

At a memorial service, the chaplain said that God had chosen these soldiers to join him in heaven. That God had made the decision of life and death. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. Those deaths came as a result of try8ing to occupy the same space as a fragment of metal, a bullet, a bomb. What about those who died of fright? What about the young Marine who died from a wasp bite? We had tested him for everything, but who knew to test him for an allergy to wasp? What about the young Marine who drowned in a monsoon stream? We taught him how to swim, but neglected to show him how to stay above water with 50 pounds of combat gear strapped to his back. Whose fault is it when young men die? I was so afraid.

They gave me a medal, and then another, and another. They said I was a hero, but I did what I had to do. I did what I was trained to do. That company was my heart, my soul. There were many battles and many challenges after Viet Nam. Those many months in the heat of Southeast Asia, in the cold chilling monsoon rains, in the grief of losses and the joy of camaraderie, despite all else,
I was ‘Charlie Six’,
the man.

In my heart I’ll always be ‘CHARLIE SIX ACTUAL’ and don’t you forget it.


I would give up the time that I have left on this Earth if I could bring everyone back from the dead, out of prisons, out of the detoxification wards, out of corporate offices, out of the classrooms, out of the hospitals and we could be ‘Charlie Company’ again. I’d give anything I have for just one more day, one more mission, one more chance to walk with and lead those magnificent young men the Corps called
‘Charlie One Four, Third Marine Division'

And may God bless them all.*





*Written 30 May 1999 by Lt/Col William Negron Retired.