We lost troops on the LZ and I’ll pay for that the rest of my life.

By Dalton Narine

At night, things that aren’t there tend to blur things that are. Like those ghosts that alternately laugh and give you the business. They rattle around in my dreams. Not the human kind in Hamlet, but the haunting, unstable memories of guilt and loss and failing.

Fifty-three soldiers, half of my unit, carved up into a collage of fragmented bodies, a mash-up of cubism and surrealism as a result of slack coordination from an artillery battery and F4 Phantom Jets on a Landing Zone (LZ)…



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