Mickey Duhon
My name is Mickey Duhon and I was born and raised in Hill City, Kansas. I am currently a host in one of the 104 rooms in Menninger Clinic. Menninger Clinic is a psychiatric hospital based in Houston, Texas and I have lived the last one hundred and sixty three days here. I am here awaiting my execution for the murder of 137 innocent Vietnamese, 16 marines, rape, and smuggling thousands of pounds of heroin into Cambodia and Laos. During my time in the service I became a notorious drug lord, completely disregarding my duty as a United States Marine Officer. I was a fucking genius, but also a selfish bastard. I regret everything about my life. I am a wasted life form.
As I have grown into an old man, I have learned a lot more about myself. With my last fifteen hours slowly ticking down, I feel the need to express that I have suddenly learned more about myself in the last five days than I have in my entire life. Self-knowledge some call it. Maybe I am seeking forgiveness for the crimes I have committed. Maybe I fear God's judgment. Whatever it is, I am not proud of the murder, the rape, or the drug addiction. Like I said, I am a waste of human life.
I was not always an insensitive killer. When the United States entered the Vietnam War in 1964 I was only 20 and in my third year at Texas A&M. I was desperate to join the Marines and join the fighting with my two older brothers. However, my father was an educated man, and refused to give me permission to join the military while I was so young. He required that I finish my degree in engineering before I make a decision. I entered Texas A&M a young virgin boy with an education in basic math, English, and science. I graduated a man from with an education in women, booze, and drugs. They immediately made their way to my three most prized possessions. I was a rebel at heart, but I had the resume of a responsible, well-educated man with a bright future ahead of himself.
After graduating I still felt the urge to join the military, and sure enough within six months my mother was kissing and crying ferociously as the bus picked up the recruits from the local greyhound station. After the completion of boot camp, I would be headed to officer training because the Marines labeled me as an “educated man.” I laughed and accepted the responsibility. At the time it hadn’t dawned on me that I would be responsible for the men that were killed under my command. If I had thought about it then, I wouldn’t have accepted such a great responsibility with a brush of my hand.
Boot camp was a piece of cake; at least for the semi-athletic bunch. There were numerous men that were overweight that came into boot camp with the mindset that it actually was a piece of cake. They expected something completely different, so whenever Drill Sargent Harrison started kicking their faces in the dirt the fatties didn’t last long. Sargent Harrison was a giant black man with a very heavy build. His chest was the size of a wooden barrel, and he had legs the size of fence posts. His head was disproportional to his entire body, but no one dared to tell him. If anyone dared to challenge the Sargent they usually learned their lesson in a matter of seconds.
I quickly became the top of my platoon and was assigned platoon leader. I was one arrogant son of a bitch, and I liked to show people that. I was a showboater. Three times a week we were called out to the obstacle course. I tiptoed down the logs that were suspended fifteen feet above the ground without a second thought. At the end of each log I would turn around, check my balance, and tease my fellow teammates as they struggled across the beams. Drill Sargent Harrison would yell at me: “You know you would make one hell of an officer if you would just support your god damn teammates Private Duhon!” he’d yell.
There was one time in particular I was thrown into a blind rage after such an incident. A rage that would show later in Vietnam. I had left my entire squad behind only to set a new company record on the obstacle course. I was boasting of the achievement when Harrison grabbed the back of my head and placed his knee into my stomach with the force of a thousand stampeding elephants. I curled into the fetal position and threw up violently. I was gasping for breath as Harrison stood over me yelling: “Ah God damn it Duhon. A Platoon leader never leaves his men behind! What the fuck do you not understand about that Private? Are you a fucking retarded Private?” He then leaned so close to my face that I could smell the menthol from his cheap cigarettes, and said. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again Private, I will literally take your spinal cord and remove it from your rectum.” With that my body burned with blind rage, and I answered his anger with my own. “Fuck you Sarge! Within three weeks of completion I will be a rank that is far from attainable for a worthless piece of shit like you. You mindless ape.” Harrison gave me a left that put my lights out.
We were being flown into the A Shau Valley, which was a small valley along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We had been flown into the country more than three months ago and were just now being deployed after we had enough time to adapt to this shit hole. Vietnam was something I had never imagined it to be. I expected Vietnam to be a tropical, mystical place of many wonders. Vietnam was a place of many wonders, but none of which were expected. The place was littered with disease and psychotic soldiers that had spent too much time in the brush. It was March 4th and on that flight into the A Shau Valley I witnessed my first glimpse of heroin in the military. Another platoon leader, a Capt. Sokolowski relieved himself of the present reality, and inserted the syringe into his ankle. He explained that it was the only way to conceal the use of the drug from the uppers.
Learning the ropes of Vietnam was not easy. Yes, I was an officer in the United States Marine Corp, but because I was new I was treated like a piece of dog shit from everyone.
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