Artistic Travels: Stand Down
LZ Gator
A war zone in a house
there’s meaning--crazy meaning.
People die by inches,
Caught in the crossfire of ambushes
Slowly die in the constant onslaught of
curses, abuse, hate, fear
Shredded self esteem. Screams in
silence so no one would hear.
No one would violate
or rend the carefully protected soul within.
Thank God for Stand Down.
--by Lyn Carr
Stand Down
by Lyn Carr
In Short: A Collection of Short Non-Fiction arrived in my mailbox yesterday. Skimming the Table of Contents I read, “LZ Gator, Vietnam February, 1994, author, Tim O’Brien. I loved his book, The Things They Carried, a collection of short stories about his time in Vietnam. I read his essay first.
Jim, a green, scared, infantryman sees Landing Zone Gator when he first arrives in Vietnam. “The large firebase seemed imposing and permanent even though he’d find this ‘castle,’ as the grunts called it, was ‘not safe exactly, but far preferable to the bush.’” (LZ ‘s like LZ Gator were large firebases built on the tops of hills surrounded by forests.)
“Once a month after that, for three or four days at a time, Tim’s company would return to Gator for what was called Stand Down.” In the U.S. Army, 1968 the words Stand Down meant Tim and his fellow grunts had a temporary break from combat, a time of relaxation and uninterrupted sleep. A relief from tension, fear and being on constant alert.
When O’Brien thinks Stand Downs he’s talking about a large LZ When I think Stand Down, I think barbecue. I’m drawn back to the two days a year when I was in my pre-teens and teens and Daddy’s spindly looking but sturdy legged aluminum grill magically appeared in the back yard. The grill, composed of a square firebox with a grill top, had two round holes beside it for the metal bowls daddy’s own barbecue sauce.
On these days this mysterious preparation meant Daddy required the whole kitchen for just he and my mother. Soon, the pungent scent of a German sweet sour barbecue sauce filled the air. He and mother diced, sliced, and cut celery and onions that they sauteed gently in bacon fat. Great red blobs of Heinz catsup made glop-glop sounds when the bottle finally let go and they’d hiss as the wet hit the hot oil and vegetables. Next, firmly packed tablespoons of dark brown sugar, never light, and a bit of yellow mustard were dropped into the fragrant, steaming mixture and simmered for twenty minutes. The delicacy was complete. Similar ingredients in different quantities flavored Heinz canned beans and the oven transformed them into the best baked beans I’ve ever tasted.
The kitchen door would open and daddy and mother would carry metal bowls down the steps to the grill. They’d lower them into the round holes made just for them, next to the grill, where a stack of charcoal briquets glowed red beneath their ash blankets. My father would return up the steps. In a few moments, he’d push the door open with his right elbow and carrying a platter, he’d slowly step down, one step at a time. it was the round steak! My favorite meat!
To the side of the briquets, the steak sizzled and the smell of meat as it turned, not brown, but a grayish color that meant it was time. Daddy slathered it in the red sauce. A few minutes more and the steak was carried to the table center surrounded by baked beans and potato salad made of mayo onions, polish dill pickles, not dills, and diced hard boiled eggs. The feast was complete. Instead of the usual sniper fire relentless criticism from my father at the person who sat opposite him, supper was pleasant. We discussed the food, how good it was and enjoyed the calm that settled during that meal.
Then came clean-up. Daddy stretched out on our worn blue velvet sofa spooning the air as he napped. Floyd, Mom and I gathered in the hot kitchen. First, Mom wiped all spatters from the stove and oven and, with a dry white cotton towel, left everything shiny and clean. The three of us would begin the long process of washing and drying what seemed like almost every dish in the kitchen. Mom would wash, stopping now and then, to swipe her elbow and arm across her forehead. Floyd and I dried, grateful we didn’t have to wash.
After clean-up we gathered in the living room around our television. Floyd, Mom and I on the sofa and daddy in his easy chair. We hunkered down and watched the Saturday evening live programs, and our favorite, the Jackie Gleason show. During commercials we’d discuss the June Taylor Dancers routine, how funny the Honeymooner skit was, even though sometimes there was something I didn’t like when Ralph would say, “Bam, Alice. Right to the moon.” I’d get a little sad when the mimed segment with the sad sack guy came on. My favorite was Joe the Bartender with his loud booming friendly voice. For some reason my father would leave me and my brother alone during our TV time and he didn’t leave to get drunk.
As the show ended I would invariably feel my mood change, and like Tim O’Brien at LZ Gator as his Stand Down ended and it was time to go back to combat. I felt “the slow dread” begin at days end as I undressed and got ready for bed. Like his, my Stand Down was over; morning would come and I’d wake to the hyper-vigilance, tension, and fear I carried into the days, nights and early morning hours in my home. I’d be back in the “Bush” of my home.
This morning I think of Kabul and a forward base in Afghanistan. I think of my nephew Scott, a handsome father of four; a young man I hardly know. I think of his round face and short army cut hair that sticks out in a Charlie Brown way all over. I remember his smile that lights up a room, and his tone of voice that says, “I’m happy to be talking with you, Aunt Lyn,” the few times we’ve chatted on the phone. I think of my brother’s son who looks so much like him. Where is he this early morning at 1 A.M., Mountain Standard Time. I wonder, are there Stand Downs from I.E.D’s.?
The photo of LZ Gator is an authentic one. Landing Zones were named and built on the tops of hills and mountains and below, were surrounded by forests called the bush. They were large and each one was different in its purpose.. I imagine they were also created so that helicopters, hueys, and slicks could land there to bring supplies.
Most had a battery with large weapons in it. These landing zones were not hot zones like the LZ’s where combat troops were dropped off from light helicopters to join units or slicks, with no weapons, used to evacuate wounded soldiers to units similar to M*A*S*H units in Korea.
Soldiers cannot fight without water, ammunition, weapons, and food. Helicopters were used in Vietnam because of the terrain, jungles and forests. Vietnam pilots were a special breed who risked their lives every time they flew the their planes into a hot zone.
A friend of mine lay badly injured, with his friends lying over his body to protect him from the severe storm that was coming. Plucked from a mountain top in the Rockies by one such pilot with 10,000 hours in Nam was saved. The pilot died the next week attempting a similar rescue.
M Lyn