By Wayne Fowler The Massacre Of Sugarloaf Hill The sun’s rays seemed to glow through the choppy water of the China Sea As we made our way through the brush to the village of Son’ Tra~3 The dawn so quiet one could not believe what lay ahead at the end Thirty-five strong, the Marines approached the place called the Den One hundred twenty-two Viet Cong lay sleeping with only one outpost The flash of a K-bar made the pajama clad mortal turn into a ghost Taking positions around the village, the assault group made their way Through the village spilling human blood just as the sun broke the day Some dove into the river, submerged till they could hold their breath no more Careful aim was taken as their heads bobbed up, one for him, one for the Corps I lay in a graveyard against a tombstone and watched this with the eye Disbelieving but absorbing the massacre as humankind prepared to die Was said to be a victory as the General shook each and everybody’s hand But I thought a victory was for a battle fought fairly upon beaches of sand Not a turkey shoot from a precise military maneuver, executed with skill But with guts and courage as a wave of Marines charge up a hopeless hill Author’s Note: This is an award-winning poem about a platoon operation in Viet Nam planned and lead by Charlie Jones, a Board Director of I.B.O.W.W. POEM INDEX