Return To Heartbreak RidgeReturn To Heartbreak Ridge is the story of a sons' search for his fathers' past, and a series of letters received from Korean War Veteran SFC Seymour "Hoppy" Harris, a gunner with Company H, 23d Infantry Regiment, 1951. It is a complex story.
Warning: Strong language, pejorative terms, and honesty.
This Thing Called War
Want to write in order to keep my mind off things.
Feeling kind of down today. Goddamned dreams are back.They come and go. Damn Clint Eastwood and his "Heartbreak Ridge" movie. Wish he had stuck it sideways.
Last night I was on Heartbreak. There was a dud mortar round. I looked at it and it blew up in my face. Knocked me for a roll. My body is full of shrapnel. I can feel it burning, and I'm bleeding terribly. I walk around with my arms out in front of me, blood dripping off the ends of my fingers, and nobody will help me. I tell this one guy I'm bleeding to death, and he asks me why I don't sit down. I tell him I don't want to lay down and die, so he finally says OK, have it your way. He walks off shaking his head mumbling something about crazy people.
Eventually this other asshole tells me I should quit walking around. Sit down, he tells me, walking around makes you bleed more. I tell him I can't bleed much more, I won't have any blood left. He leads me over to a small pine tree and sits me down. Said that was a good place for me, I could die in the shade. Told him I was cold sitting in the shade, that if I had to die, I wanted to die in the sun. He said no, that wasn't a good idea, if I died in the sun, I'd lay there and stink.
I sat there awhile and then I saw what I thought was an angel. Yes, it was an angel, she radiated light and floated just above the ground, and I thought she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. But then she gives me the giggy-finger, grabbed herself by the twat, and takes off straight up.
Then I see this huge Master Sergeant. I know who he is. He's "Big Steve" from graves registration. I'd heard about him but never knew he actually existed. Thought he was a figment of someone's imagination. I wonder what he is doing around here. There aren't any dead. Least I don't see any. Then two others appear on the scene and Big Steve points to me and says, "There's one there."
As they head for me, I want to cry out but cannot. They push me over into the soft pine needles. Then they roughly pull my arms down, putting my hands in my field jacket pockets. Then a rubber bag is brought. I'm put in it and hear the zipper being zipped around me, and it is dark. I can smell the rubber.
Next thing I know this little angel is back and she is doing acrobatics only a few feet off the ground.
She hovers over top of me and pisses in my face. Her piss burns like white phosphorus and the pain is terrible. I want to scream out but I cannot.
Then I see Satan. Satan is a gook. His skin is yellow and his teeth and eyes have an exaggerated slant. I stare at him. His mouth opens wide and little Satans come floating out and fall gently to the ground. It seems there is no end to the little Satans and they keep coming until they cover Heartbreak Ridge. They are on the ground, in the trees and bushes, in the foxholes and bunkers.
And I hear a loud voice, and the voice thunders and says, "You will go down to hell with the weapons of war under your head, for it is written, thou shalt not kill!" And then thousands of little Satans, none over four inches high, gathered in front of me, and their tiny peckers stand straight out, and they commence to masturbate to the tune of Hank Snow's "I'm Movin' On."
My wife woke me from this nightmare and told me next morning I was thrashing around mumbling, "You dirty little motherfuckers!" Its like watching a movie. Sometimes I'm an observer, sometimes a participant. Whatever the case, I'm always extremely sad. It's strange, but I never see anyone I know. I'm seeing people as if they are symbols. They symbolize all that is horrible, pathetic, stupid about this thing called war.
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