Creative Writing: My First Vietnam War

They came in late August. The sun was just barely sinking behind the tops of the low mountains, the sky growing dark, the sounds of crickets audible from within the tall grass that covered dry dirt. I could hear the sounds of distant conversation and smell the sharp aroma of smoked meats from the people who had come back from the cassava fields early. They drove in military vans the color of dust. I saw them coming. I heard their growl and smelled the tang of gasoline. It intermingled with the dense, flavorful smell of the meat and flew up my nose making my head throb. My mama had thought they might be coming here soon. Our village was far from the war zone. But the war was always moving, always expanding. She had said to me, “Uma. When

The vans came down the road spewing dust behind their tires. I stiffened as they came inside the village and drove out of my sight. None of the girls talked. I set down my knife on the uneven bench. My brothers were no longer hunched over the plants, but were instead looking towards the village. It seemed as though everyone was still, not knowing exactly what was going to happen. Ode came in to the hut we were sitting in. She beckoned with her hand to come over to her and glanced over her shoulder to check out the door. We hurriedly went over to where she was standing. “They have come to recruit both adults and children to fight in the war. I cannot explain all of this now. My hut has a basement. We can not take any more people than we already have.” I glanced over my shoulder out the rectangular hole window. My brothers were still out in the field. One of the women went over to them and pulled them down to lay where they were hidden in plant leaves. I wanted to know where my mother was. “Come.” She looked at us and then turned to look out the door and then quietly ran to the house on the other side of the small walkway. She nodded at us to follow. I heard the sounds of people yelling.