My oldest brother spent three tours of duty in Viet Nam during the late 1960s. The following is my brother's account of an incident in Viet Nam, 1967. I'll be using this at some point in my book, Brothers.

Hill 327

Tet of 1967.  My unit was sent out to take hill 327 during operation Cochise.  It was just another hill thought to be a VC encampment.  We were dropped from helicopters in the jungle about a klick from the hill and proceeded on foot to take it.  As it turned out nobody wanted the hill until we got there.

With no enemy in sight, we were ordered to set up a perimeter and dig in for the duration.  We dug two man fox holes using folding, entrenching tools and filling sand bags using the dirt dug out of the holes.  These holes were home for the next 31 days and nights.

The days weren't so bad.  We ate in our holes, kept watch, and went out on patrols.  Occasional firefights were the rule.  Constant heat, off and on rain, and poor sanitation contributed to body lice, diarrhea, and jungle rot.  Talk about a bunch of pissed off guys!

Then would come the nights.  It would seem as though everybody in the world wanted our hill.  Mortars, rockets, and hit and run tactics against our perimeter would happen sporadically throughout the night.

So much more happened here I just don't want to write anymore about; I'll tell you over many drinks sometime.

A sample from my next novel, Brothers. This will be a novel that uses many of the circumstances of my own life.

January 3, 1956

The three oldest kids were stuffed into the only bedroom of the little cedar shake house set back two-hundred feet from the Red Cedar River.  Frost decorated  the two walls of the bedroom that were opposite  the elements.  Jack was in the top bunk against the inside wall.  When he felt inclined, he could maneuver and stretch his body and arm across the narrow space separating him from the frost on the opposite wall and carve designs in it with his fingernails.  

Jack Hula was six years old.  His older sister and brother, Sydney and Gabe were nine and ten.  Gabe occupied the lower bunk while Sydney's bunk was set perpendicular at the feet of the others.  Kellan lay in a bassinet in the main room of the house next to their parents’ pullout bed.

A kerosene stove in the middle of the tiny living room provided the only source of heat in the winter, keeping a steady flow of warm air passing over the two year old, Kellan, lying in the bassinet.  Two lamps were situated strategically in corners of the living room and a bare 60 watt bulb was screwed into a receptacle in the middle of the ceiling.  The house had no running water or bathroom.  An outhouse was set in back next to a shed.  Gabe and Sydney, now that they were ten and nine, were often given the task of hauling two buckets away from the house and up the path leading to the railroad embankment.  From there they climbed the ten-foot embankment to the bridge, crossed it, and then followed a two-hundred yard path that lead to a spring bubbling out of the ground.  They filled the buckets and hauled them back to the house.

  Water had to be hauled daily, across all seasons during the nine years Jack’s family lived this way.  Jack’s mother, Anabelle, could hardly wait for the children to age enough so they could help with the hard chores that were necessary for maintaining their lives near the river.  This was the first year that Gabe and Sydney had been allowed to fetch water.  Annabelle had made sure they were up to it; they had accompanied her many times during the previous years, carefully negotiating the railroad bridge until she was sure they could walk it blindfolded if need be.  The children were always thrilled at the prospect of fetching water and looked forward to the opportunity to show Mom that they could do it alone.  

None of the  Hula’s closest neighbors lived this way, indeed, just about no one else did during the late 40’s and early 50’s.    All had running water and indoor bathrooms.  

Jack’s father, Brian Hula, had been discharged from the Navy following World War 11, found out he and his little family couldn’t live on the money the GI Bill provided for him to attend Aeronautical Engineering school in California so returned to Minnesota where he worked as a laborer at the packing plant in Austin.  It was a unionized plant that provided a decent, if not spectacular wage.  Brian and Annabelle Hula’s marriage meant that Brian worked full time while Annabelle took are of the household and children full-time.  They saved as much of Brian’s income as they possibly could and began building a  three bedroom rambler on the same site as the cedar shake house.  When they finished the house well enough to move into during the summer of 1956, they had indoor water, bathroom, and a forced air furnace.  And… They had no debts.  Except for laying the foundation block, Brian and Annabelle had done all of the work themselves.

Update

I, along with my usual editor and a couple of others, are in the finishing stages of editing "The Book Club Murders".   I have also started writing more on my next book, "Brothers".
This story will be a fictionalized account of the lives of three brothers, following them from their early years until well into their fifties.
 During the past year I've relied upon my memory as well as collected stories from my own brother and other sets of siblings in my quest to provide as many real happenings as I can within the book.  However, the story line will be mostly fiction with enough interesting actual events thrown in, as well as adventure, to satisfy my own wants and needs.
It's going to be kind of a tribute to my brothers (one living one passed away) told with love and affection for both, although it will still be a work of fiction.

As usual, I'll post snippets of it from time to time.

One more snippet before final editing and publishing.

Gerald Hodges left his house at precisely 7:17pm.  He carried his giant, black, heavy duty bags for the treasure he intended to acquire tonight.  He would scope out the sidewalks and streets on his way to the first stop on his list, the municipal, for any cans he would come across.  This was not making him rich, but it kept him in spending money.  Actually, he didn't need anymore money.  He just liked getting out and performing a service, as he liked to call it.  He was recycling something that needed it, and he was performing a community beautification service, for which most people in town were grateful.
He knew a lot of residents in this small town viewed him with either suspicion or contempt, or they just tolerated him, but he didn't care.  He had his little group of old men, where he was the youngest by probably a decade, to provide him with conversation and intellectual stimulation that he had craved ever since his work in the museum.
Boston Whitley was one he particularly enjoyed.  Seth Tryton and Earl Mancoat were window dressing for the intellectual discussions that he and Boston regularly maintained when they gathered at the municipal.
All three gentlemen had been curious about his background before he had returned to Rose Creek, and he had provided them with most of the details of his varied activities...most, anyway.  They really had no idea how he had really made his money or sustained his interest in life.  Indeed, they had no idea that he really didn't need any money at all.  He was, as he liked to comment to his imaginary friend, set for life.

Finishing stages of The Book Club Murders

I am within a couple dozen pages of finishing my latest effort and getting excited about sending the rest to my editor along with the usual self editing, which never seems to find and correct all of my mistakes, i.e., typos, punctuation, grammar, and spelling.  I might post one more snippet (which doesn't reveal anything, of course), but will hopefully have this wrapped up within a month and begin my book about Brothers.  That's what I'm really excited about.

Writing the Book Club Murders has been a growing experience as I've delved into a new experience---writing a murder mystery.  So far, I'm happy with the result, but I'm always striving to get better, hopefully, it shows.

More writings

Snow was falling softly as Damien left the car and entered the muni.  There was a nice crowd in the little place so he got a diet coke from the tall drink of water behind the bar and tried to slide unnoticed over to a small table away from the one Hodges and his cronies occupied in the far corner.  Boston Whitley noticed Damien enter the bar almost immediately.

“Hey,” he said to his friends at the table.  “Junior just came in.”  The others cast their faces to where Boston was looking.

“Well, well, well.  I think it is,” said Earl Mancoat.  “I’ll bet we can expect Miss Beautiful to come in any second.”

“Probably parking the car.  Jesus, I’ll bet he makes her drive the damn car everywhere.”

“Yeah, like a little chauffeur,” Seth Tryton added sneeringly.

“It’s plain to see who the brains of that outfit is,” huffed Mancoat, as Gerald Hodges sat silent.  Mancoat continued, “I got an idea, let’s invite Junior over and we’ll pump him for information.”

Hodges perked up, “Capital idea,” he said.

Whitley rose, hobbled over to Damien’s small, high-top table.  “Junior, come on over and join us.  We’re having good “man” conversations over there, and we figure you might learn something.”  Damien, who had been watching Whitley cross the bar to his table, didn’t answer right away and frowned.

Eyebrows raised, Whitley tried again.  “What’s the matter, too much testosterone for a young buck like yourself?  Come on, have a beer, er, uh, or a diet coke, and let us know what’s happening with your investigation.”  Whitley sneaked a peak at his compatriots at the other table and winked.

Gathering momentum to rise up and join the party, Damien rose and said, “Ok,  I’ll be with you in a second.  Gotta go to the bathroom first, though.” 

Whitley smiled a wide one,  “Great, kid!  Take a piss and come on over.  I’ll bring your diet coke.”  He picked up the drink and limped back over to the old mens’ table while Damien took his time walking over to the bathroom.  He entered, waited until the gentleman ahead of him used the facilities, took out his cell phone and texted Beth that he was joining the old guys.  He finished, washed his hands out of habit and went back out to join the old guys.

As Damien sat down in a chair that had been pulled out for him by Seth Tryton, Gerald Hodges extended his hand.  Damien grasped it and was surprised by the strength of Hodges’ grip.

“So good to see you old boy,” Hodges stated in his acquired English accent.

“It’s good to see you, as well Mr. Hodges.”

“Call me Gerald, please, or better yet, Gerry.  That’s what they all call me here.”

The others chimed in.  “That’s right, Gerry,” they said in unison while staring at Damien, making him distinctly uncomfortable.  Shifting in his chair, he wondered if the little group had an ulterior motive for asking him to join them.

“So, Damien, if I may call you that, could you share any tidbits of your investigation with us?” Hodges asked.

“Actually, there isn’t much to share at this point.  As you know, the police have some persons of interest they are doing some background work on.”  He delivered the words while staring at Hodges.  The others, except for Hodges shook their heads no.  Hodges smiled a half smile and concurred.

He looked at his friends.  “I regret that I did not inform my friends I have been told I am one of those persons of interest,” he said.   His “friends” were all silent for a moment until Earl Mancoat spoke up.

“Ha, good one, Gerry.  Why would they think a harmless old guy like yourself, hell, like any of us here, could be involved in a murder?”

“He’s not joking, uh, I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Mancoat, Earl,” he said forcefully.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mancoat, but he’s not joking.  The authorities think that Gerry might know more than he’s told them so far.”

“And what do you think, Junior?”  Boston Whitley asked.

“Me?  I tend to leave the thinking up to my boss.”

“Ah yes.  The beautiful Miss Reddy,” Hodges said.  “Speaking of whom, where is Miss Reddy tonight?”  Damien, who hadn’t planned to be sitting with the gang of oldsters and be subjected to questions, squirmed in his chair a little trying to come up with a plausible answer.  The old guys noticed his discomfiture and leaned forward to put a little more pressure on him.

Update on The Book Club Murders

I have been writing fairly regularly lately, between 750 to 1500 words per morning and am on target to finish the book by The end of March if I keep up this pace.   Gaps in my outline have been filled in and I am eager to write those parts of the book.

Rewriting and improving (in my view) some of my previously posted sections has occupied about a quarter of my writing time.  Generally I have been pleased with the direction of the story, but am most happy with development of the Gerald Hodges character.  Hodges has a smattering of OCD and Aspergers Syndrome, something that I became familiar with in my work as a Speech/Language Pathologist.

To my visitors, please feel free to comment and make suggestions to any sections of my writings posted on this blog.  I welcome any constructive criticisms or suggestions.