- Joined
- Oct 25, 2014
- Messages
- 2
Left-Handed Bayonet Fighter
Terry Hertzler
Ft. Gordon, Georgia, 1968, Basic Trainingthe bayonet
assault course NCO announcing that there were no
left-handed bayonet fighters in his Armyone of many
issues the Army and I never agreed on. That and Vietnam.
Twenty years later, Im married, have moved on in my life.
Hadn't been in our garage in weeks, and when I opened
the door, the stench of death and decomposition gagged me.
Took twenty minutes moving junk around to find the body
of an opossum. Called animal control, then dragged
the body to the curb on an old shovel, breathing in and out
through my mouth, angry and shaking.
Wanted to talk to my wife, but couldn't find any words.
Instead, found my KA-BAR combat knife, went out
to the backyard and threw the knife into the trunk of our
sweet gum, again and again, until my left arm ached
and I felt guilty about punching any more holes into the tree,
blade heavy with sap.
I sat in the grass at the base of the tree, fingers sticky
where I'd touched the end of the blade. Over and over
I pressed my thumb and forefinger together then pulled
them apart, skin deformed by the tensionstretching
then partingthe world reduced to that tiny gap between
my fingers. And each time, in that final instant between
connection and release, I felt as if I were dreaming,
everything I touched swollen and razor thin at the same time.
Terry Hertzler
Ft. Gordon, Georgia, 1968, Basic Trainingthe bayonet
assault course NCO announcing that there were no
left-handed bayonet fighters in his Armyone of many
issues the Army and I never agreed on. That and Vietnam.
Twenty years later, Im married, have moved on in my life.
Hadn't been in our garage in weeks, and when I opened
the door, the stench of death and decomposition gagged me.
Took twenty minutes moving junk around to find the body
of an opossum. Called animal control, then dragged
the body to the curb on an old shovel, breathing in and out
through my mouth, angry and shaking.
Wanted to talk to my wife, but couldn't find any words.
Instead, found my KA-BAR combat knife, went out
to the backyard and threw the knife into the trunk of our
sweet gum, again and again, until my left arm ached
and I felt guilty about punching any more holes into the tree,
blade heavy with sap.
I sat in the grass at the base of the tree, fingers sticky
where I'd touched the end of the blade. Over and over
I pressed my thumb and forefinger together then pulled
them apart, skin deformed by the tensionstretching
then partingthe world reduced to that tiny gap between
my fingers. And each time, in that final instant between
connection and release, I felt as if I were dreaming,
everything I touched swollen and razor thin at the same time.
