I worked for MACVSOG in Vietnam. SOG was a clearing house that matched special skills to special missions, everything from deep recon to assassination. I was mostly an errand boy, and never an assassin. I just flew assassins and others to work and then picked them up after, a kind of male soccer mom, delivering death. Sometimes, when the game was over, I picked them up wounded and my job was to keep them alive until we got home, perhaps so they could heal and kill again. They were strange agents, those guys. I always wondered what went on in their heads. I never asked. If I met one now, I still wouldn’t. Somethings you do are hard enough to explain to yourself without explaining them to others. In war you become a razor, sharp, deadly, wielded by the hand of others. It’s not your hand that does the killing, though your hand holds the knife. No one is responsible. Mistakes were made. You live with them in your dreams.

Good poem. :)

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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