The last time I saw Charlie, I was in-country and they were maddening shadows, the damn bastards, in the green and black dense jungle foliage. They were hiding, ghostly and evasive My brother soldiers and I were sweating in dry mouthed anticipation. The Bong Son Bomber we smoked the day before was a brief vacation for our spent minds. We had some fear, some anger, and what the hell are we doing here thoughts. We would drift dreamily with the weed. But, the following day in-country all I could recall is a flash of burning ungodly pain. A chopper raging thunderously. I was in and out of consciousness, as I was loaded onto the angry bird. Then, she was there. I remember right before I blacked out. In the real life, Sharon in her cheerleader outfit in our high school gym, just tossed up in a flight of acrobatic beauty amidst the guys' basketball game. Her long strawberry-blonde hair streaming. I became blissfully lost in it. The bridge of her nose sprinkled with endearing freckles. Her happy bright brown eyes, then, a sadness, as she began to whisper to me. I awoke in a wounded soldiers' hospital ward. I felt such a loss. With my blurry eyes I looked down the length of my body. Oh God, I was missing my lower right leg! I was heavily bandaged and woozy. I raised my head up, got a little dizzy. My next thoughts were of my brothers still in-country, some of them in-country longer than me, some Cherries. My psyche screamed, "I can't leave my war buddies!" I slept so much, and the Army nurses were friendly and compassionate. One of them had such a good sense of humor, she smiled often, reminding me of the comedienne Carol Burnett. My leg bandages were changed regularly. I could swear I felt my lower leg was still there. I played checkers with a few of the other wounded recovering soldiers. We had camaraderie and some laughs. The hospital meals were alright, I couldn't complain about my stay. My surgeon, a tall man with a military bearing, came down the corridor to see me. He told me I was going home stateside. I was elated, but then experienced some guilt. My brothers still in that storming chaotic hell. Tears filled my eyes. The rude scent of napalm was still in my nose. I took a long sip of apple juice from the Styrofoam cup next to my bed. I was only nineteen, but my brothers were young too. The transistor radio was playing the Cowsills song, "Flower Girl," I began to daydream of Sharon, of high school, and all of our friends again at a bonfire that chilly Homecoming night in October. All of Sharon's loving letters to me, waiting, waiting, my parents too. I'm coming home, sweet girl, I'm coming home!