The following story
is derived from the experiences of Steven John Byko, who served as part of the
Marine Corps during the Vietnam War.
Steven Byko enlisted in 1966 and served until 1970, ascending to the
position of Sergeant E5. For his
service in Vietnam, Sergeant Byko received Air Combat Wings as well as several
ribbons for various campaigns. He
left his hometown of Bristol to see Vietnam, where he spent the majority of his
time as an electrician and gunner in helicopters. He currently resides in Canton where he works as a commercial
real estate consultant.
The summer nights of Vietnam were just as unbearable as the days. The sun was gone, launching its assault somewhere else in the world, but a new type of agitation kept the minds of men in a state of unrest. Steven Byko was assigned to a month’s worth of perimeter guard detail, setting up bunkers, barbwire fences, planting claymore mines and the like, watching for VC in the distance. Nighttime offered little comfort to him, as the shadows served only as a veil of attack for the North Vietnamese.
Byko and the others spent their nights in the open air
above ground level. There were
places to sleep in the bunker, but staying inside wasn’t much of an
option. Sweat was of little value
in the dead air of the bunker, and the centipedes there were the size of a man’s
hand. It proved preferable to stay
outside and let the skin breathe.
The change in locale made little difference that night, though. It was late, and the air was still. Steven Byko’s clothes stuck to his skin, keeping the comfort level low but tolerable. Steven had enlisted in the war with hopes of seeing the world. Like his father had in the Second World War, Steven and his classmate chose the Marine Corps, entering together in the buddy program right out of high school. Before arriving in Vietnam, Byko was convinced that he would never get to see action—that the war would be over before he could lay his eyes on the jungles of the Southeast Asia. That night, though, it was hard not to see it. Helicopter gunships flew over the area, dropping canisters of phosphorus to light up the eastern sky. This allowed the men to look into the distance for approaching forces. After being triggered, the canisters would fall to the ground, leaving only the beauty of the Vietnam sky behind them. The release of a phosphorus canister lit the sky, as always, illuminating the peace above. This night, in the distance, Byko could see a Vietnamese man walking through the forest. Byko saw no weapons, but stayed alert. It appeared that the man was gathering the canisters; surely for the salvage Byko thought. He eased off his weapon. This, however, did not stop the gunfire. Shots blasted to his left. Instantly, the man was dead—killed. Byko could only stare. A wave-like pulse ran from his forehead, over his head, and down his back. The man was dead. Sure, there were reasons, if words alone could be considered reasons. Byko had to listen to these words of lip service—but he couldn’t forget. The man was dead. The fact of the matter was that there were no reasons. A Vietnamese man couldn’t infiltrate the perimeter with a few empty phosphorus canisters in his hands.
Byko entered the war well aware of his duties as a
Marine. That knowledge remained
with him throughout his tour. But,
for the rest of that night, Byko remained along the perimeter. The light remained. The centipedes remained. The sweat remained. The peace was gone.
The man was dead.