Doug Anderson

You have the dream again: monsoon season, jungle, a muddy village road; you are naked, stumbling along a paddy dike across an open field toward the village where C. W. killed all the pigs but once into the trees there is only thickening jungle, cano [...]

When I came home from the war I gave my hunting guns to a painter who wanted to know about those things, wanted to sit some morning waiting for javelina to emerge from groundfog, a gentle man who hadn't seen what a 308 can do to a lung. I let the sc [...]

We ride on tanks over the new rice, break down the dikes so the dirty water runs in with the clear. They run beside us, little claw gestures toward their mouths, This is what we eat you are running over. We look back without expression. Mamasan stan [...]

                         Near Hoi Anh, 1967 Pinned down two hours in a Buddhist graveyard by two barefoot snipers who will not die no matter how many mortars we walk their way. They keep moving, the one firing, the other dou [...]