In 1996 my mother called and asked if I still wanted “the box of army things” I had sent to her and dad, apparently just before leaving country. For the life of me I couldn’t remember sending a box to my parents from Vietnam. Curious, I asked her to send it out.

This old box arrived inside a newer one—it wouldn’t have made the journey on its own. The cardboard was broken at the seams and not as strong as it once had been. The box stooped forward. The scotch tape, brittle and wrinkled, cracked free when peeled. The writing on the cardboard had faded even though it had lived most of its life in darkness, watching the furnace glow in winter and in summer waiting patiently in light reflected off green leaves and shaded through high dusty windows. On the top was my parents address in Patten, Maine with my name, Keith R Parker, neatly lettered above it.

Inside the box were things that had not seen the light of day for over 30 years. Things that had once burned hot under a tropical sun. Things that only a handful of men know about me. Folded on top was the pair of tiger-stripe jungle fatigues I had worn in my last months in Vietnam. My Green Beret was in there, flattened and permanently creased and now unwearable. Below my beret was a jungle scarf and below it, a Chinese compass and an Army issue .45 caliber pistol. The compass was white plastic and boxed in red and blue Chinese characters. I found it by the trailside after a firefight and had used it as my own practical spoil of war.

The .45 surprised me. How I mustered the balls to lift it from the Army and mail it through several points of inspection is beyond me now. But sending the .45 home would not have been life threatening and therefore, “small beer.” An officer, and friend too, had loaned it to me. He was killed later on so I never had the chance to return it. In the field the .45 had felt like an integral part of my hand and I felt vulnerable without its weight tugging me forward.

Below another jungle scarf and at the bottom of the box was the journal I had kept in Vietnam. It felt familiar and comfortable in my hands. My handwriting had not changed at all. The scribbled mixture of cursive and printing looked so familiar I could have written the words yesterday. The stories you’ll read in A Year Among Men are based on what I read.

© Copyright 2004 Keith R. Parker