Tom Logan, the protagonist of my novel A Gathering of Diamonds, is a Vietnam vet suffering from alcoholism, drug abuse and Delayed Stress Syndrome.  When his depression progresses to the point that he checks himself into a mental institution, he doubts that he will ever leave its doors.  That changes when he receives a mysterious package from his brother.

Logan’s brother has disappeared into the wild Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas and he wrests himself from his lethargy to try to find him.  He meets Amber Armstrong, a beautiful neo-pop poet/police officer, who aids in his quest.

With the assistance of Amber, an excellent runner, Logan’s physical and mental health begins improving.  Events that occurred in Vietnam involving caves and dark holes in the ground still grip his psyche, causing flashbacks at inopportune times.  Here is an excerpt from A Gathering of Diamonds featuring one of Tom Logan’s flashbacks:

       Jungle night, dark as a black glove cloaking a war waged on many fronts, mine fought along jungle trail systems, winding out of North Vietnam that skirted Laos and Cambodia.  North Vietnamese regulars traveled in small convoys, always at night, always on trails that extended, like distended entrails, through dark triple canopy.

       We were on ambush, lying in wait like stalking animals, and my muscles ached from two days of disuse.  My bladder was full and I was almost blind from staring into darkness.  Our squad had placed three claymores on one end of the trail, three more on the other - six weapons forming two claws of a deadly pincer as we flanked one side of the trail in a semi-circle.

       The opposite flank encompassed thick jungle growth impossible to penetrate.  At least as fast as hapless Vietnamese soldiers would have to exit the scene of impending carnage.  I was lying on my stomach trying not to squeeze the trigger of an M-60 - locked, loaded, and ready for blood.

       I heard something - bamboo snapping beneath someone's foot.  Whispers pealed like church bells.  It was not the choir and they were not on their way to Sunday school.  Stench of unwashed bodies accosted my nostrils and I began to see wraith-like movement along the trail.  A row of single file soldiers moved slowly past our position.

       An exploding trip flare lighted the jungle with smoke and billowing crimson and our clacker man blew half the claymores.  So close was I to the blast, I didn't hear the remaining weapons detonate but I saw the bloody result through dilated eyes suddenly awash in strobe-like eruptions of murderous light.  As I watched, bodies of terrified soldiers began dissolving in slow-motion explosions of flesh, blood, and bone.

       Three North Vietnamese Regulars somehow survived the blasts only to have us greet them with free fire from grenade launchers, M-16s and the M-60.  Realizing they couldn't escape through thick jungle they raised their weapons, opened fire and charged, headlong, into our position.

       Every third round from the M-60's muzzle was a tracer that continued lighting up the night until my bullets were gone.  The semi-circle of flashing death destroyed bamboo, trailing vines and any hapless creature caught in its deadly swath, my finger clenched on the big gun's trigger until thirty seconds after the last round of ammo had passed through the chamber.  A dying flare told me there was nothing left to shoot at but my twitching trigger finger kept trying anyway.

       One of the charging Vietnamese soldiers almost made it until taken out by a close range gut shot.  He died after thirty minutes of screaming agony.  At first, there was silence, and then darkness.  Left only was the stench of death, spent blood, gunpowder, and urine from someone’s loosened bladder - maybe my own.

       I opened my eyes on the hilly trail above the Holiday Inn.  Someone was screaming.  It was me.

Eric’s Web