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from War Child

from War Child C H R I S T I A N L A N G W O R T H Y We didn't see much of the war between the North and the South, though it was never far away. The war was on the other side of the canal, over the hills in the mountains and jungle. We never saw the battles or the skirmishes in the swamps and paddies. To us the war was the distant thunder of howitzers, the shudder of our bungalow door, the helicopter blades whipping the air. The war was green and yellow star clusters flaring across the moonless skies, the prison searchlights, and the air-raid sirens. It was the sand-filled burlap bags of the bomb shelter and the faces of strangers springing from the dark under the lantern light. The war was the muffled reports of assault rifles somewhere in the jungle, the cadences of soldiers marching through the streets of Da Nang. The war was orange-robed monks leading funeral processions through streets littered with the fresh dung of oxen. Sometimes the war was sticks of incense burned for prayer, sometimes olive-green tin cans of c-rations labeled with black stars. Sometimes the war http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

from War Child

Manoa , Volume 14 (1) – Apr 1, 2002

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2002 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

C H R I S T I A N L A N G W O R T H Y We didn't see much of the war between the North and the South, though it was never far away. The war was on the other side of the canal, over the hills in the mountains and jungle. We never saw the battles or the skirmishes in the swamps and paddies. To us the war was the distant thunder of howitzers, the shudder of our bungalow door, the helicopter blades whipping the air. The war was green and yellow star clusters flaring across the moonless skies, the prison searchlights, and the air-raid sirens. It was the sand-filled burlap bags of the bomb shelter and the faces of strangers springing from the dark under the lantern light. The war was the muffled reports of assault rifles somewhere in the jungle, the cadences of soldiers marching through the streets of Da Nang. The war was orange-robed monks leading funeral processions through streets littered with the fresh dung of oxen. Sometimes the war was sticks of incense burned for prayer, sometimes olive-green tin cans of c-rations labeled with black stars. Sometimes the war

Journal

ManoaUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: Apr 1, 2002

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