Bad Coffee :: essays research papers

It was a cold and damp morning, the moisture stuck to skin like move to fly paper. The loud thud thud thud of the helicopters had awaken me from my trance, after(prenominal) two and one-half hours of sleep. I had risen just in cadence for a fresh cup of umber when all of the sudden a chopper touched down just outside the barracks kicking up all the debris and dirt it could find. The iniquity before had been a deuced one, the mortar blasts and screams of my fellow soldiers had kept me awake nearly all night. And how, my coffee had been ruined by the all-fired helicopter. I was in the worst short letter on Earth, Saigon, in 1968. Definitely the do by place at the wrong time. My orders were simple, so I thought. Meet up with a group of parking area Berets just outside of enemy lines, and go north to a belittled village controlled by American troops, we would get more information presently after we had arrived. That was it, just like king of the hill when I was kid. I met up with my partners in a joint called the favourable Money, a current run down place, the air filled with stale smoke and the olfactory property of plastic palm trees. Lets just say the Lucky Money had carry outn better days. Hell just four months ago bobsleigh Hope had occupied that vacant stage. The atmosphere was filled with tension. At the knock down of a pin the whole environment could erupt into total chaos, half the time shoot outs would start in the street just from punks tossing rocks around.The guys I met up with were worn down, not one of them had a good nights rest in at least a month, you could see it in their eyes. All they wanted was a ride home, and they were going to do anything and everything in their power to get home. The leader of the group, Colonel Jake Denton, had been here two damn years. He didnt have much to say except he missed his kids. The other three were all from Texas, but none of them knew severally other until the army put them together. The mou sy looking kid was from Dallas, and he always had a cigarette hanging from his lip, a sure brand of the stress that was building inside him, his name was Jon Weinhard.