A Season for War

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They had overcome him in the end, tenaciously...taking him down.

Their heavy shots splashed into him...with that courageous passion

peculiar to hunters.

—James Salter

 

 

Billy and I potshot what we mistook for a duck
back in 7th grade at Santa Fe Lake in Neosho County.

The bird dove, surfaced for air, dove and surfaced again,

forced down by salvos of #6 bird shot until it floated

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and washed to shore. I presented the bird to my father

like a sinner’s offering and remember saying,
If it had flown, it might have lived. A loon, he said

without taking it. They don’t often range in Kansas

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and they’re never in season. Last time I saw Billy was Đà Nẵng.
A forward air controller flying O-1E Bird Dogs, he marked
VC positions with the bright smoke of white phosphorus rockets.

I flew one mission. Rode the tandem seat. We packed M16s.

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He controlled the aircraft by working the stick with his knees— hands free to fire through pop-open windows. 2 sampans, ferrying Vietnamese dressed in black, motored across
the Hán River. Shoot ’em, he said through my headset.

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Ducks on a pond. I aimed far to the side. That night,
at the Oceanside Bar, between chugs of Tiger Beer, Billy teased, You’re still a lousy shot, Doctor. Billy stayed another tour,
rigged an M60 machine gun in place of the tandem seat—

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converted his observation plane into attack aircraft 
By tilting or turning, it became a lethal weapon
until diving within range of an AK-47, Billy took a round in his chest. He radioed for escort. Huey gunship pilots

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called through their mics, You’re losing altitude, Captain,

head for the sea. Billy and his O-1E splashed on the surf,

rode the breakers upright until lifted onto China Beach,

an open spread of sand  as fine and white as altar cloth. 

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                —Billy's name is on The Wall: Panel 11E, Line 63