Friday, August 13, 2004

Dear Diary

My entry for First Annual Kerry Fiction Award.

Dear Diary,

The night air sweats with danger as around us are the sounds of enemy the evil that permeates this land. I hear the lap of the water against the hull and smell the rotting vegetation. This is Nam. This is where it is happening. And I am here. (Note to self: Make the delivery. Llike Walter Cronkite when he says, You are There. I [pause] am [here] here. Understated but calculatingly so. That will work.)

My crew sleeps. I should, too. God, knows, I am tired utterly exhausted and the searing, searing heat has melted the Belgium chocolates mother sent me. Pity. They are so very excellent. The champagne is half gone because some son of a-bitch tripped me while I was carrying it to my quarters. The bastards can't recognize that I am ten times superior to them. I know they laugh at me behind my back because of the uncooked grain of rice, but damn, it is Christmas. You would think they would forgive the mess I made of that run up the river. I really did think Cambodia was that close. Sons of bitches. Honestly, I think anyone is better than these guys. They just won't let it go.

Make a note to self: Ask Mother to send three dozen pairs of socks to match my uniform. And pate. You know how I like pate.

Tuesday Monday Tuesday
I think it's Tuesday. It must be. My watch is broken. The Rolex Mother gave me when I shipped over here has ceased to function. No one will tell me the time. Sons of bitches. I'll fix them.

Today was full of exciting fraught with excitement. I took pictures and the guys griped because I wanted to re-shoot some of the scenes, but this is my future we are talking about here. Just because the sons of bitches can't afford a camera. Damn handy that James can still manage the weekly trip to collect the films for processing and safe keeping. Very good butler. I shall have to commend him to Mother. I think I scratched my finger. Must have been the action this afternoon. It looks serious enough to see a medic.

Got some good shots (no, Mother, not like bullets) of some enemy up close today.
You could feel the tension in the air. One of them had a battered hat and wanted to trade it for his freedom. He was frankly astounded that I spoke French. He complimented me extravagantly on my accent. I explained that I had grown up in France and Switzerland and English was really foreign to me. We had a lot in common and managed a lengthy conversation. He appreciates me even if the guys don't. That's the problem with being superior. Jealousy eats them up, but this brave little man recognized it in me. He claims to have studied in Paris and I have no doubt of his veracity.

Dear Diary,
I have done a simply awful thing.

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