D.M.Z.
by Peyton Hofschwitz 

“Your problem, Private Crunch,” yelled the sergeant, “is that you think war is glory. That war is a game. Well, I’ve got news for you, and it’s going to tickle you right down to your big fat cockles—war is hellish!”

Private Benji Hammond Krunk was not, however, surprised by the bold declaration by the screaming sergeant. He knew war was… hellish. He had not signed up for Viet Nam with any delusions about what he was getting into. He couldn’t say why he signed up at all, which is to say he did not know.

Sgt. Vice insisted on yelling at all his new recruits the same way. He was the commanding officer now that everybody over him had been killed off by snipers, late-night machine gun fire, and occasional bear attacks. Vice was not really unlikable, despite what the introductory statement he made might imply; he was merely a man under severe stress, a man who had seen it all, a man who got a weird kick out of taking people’s names and making goofy nicknames out of them that sounded somewhat similar, as he did for Pvt. Krunk, whom he had newly-dubbed Private Crunch.

Just the night before Krunk and the sergeant had lost all the members of their platoon in a freak water accident and were the only two left to hold the base until reinforcements arrived. Despite being all by themselves, Sgt. Vice could show no affection for his only subservient soldier. Showing affection for anyone in a country where people were killed right before your eyes or died in bizarre accidents out of nowhere was not a good idea. You had to build a shell over yourself, like chemically-treated chocolate syrup that turned hard on ice cream.

Things grew grimmer as the hours went on. Vice knew the V.C. could show up at any minute, armed to the teeth and pointy hats and looking to capture more territory for their communist government. It wasn’t a pretty thought, like his mother-in-law in short-shorts. But Vice had to face the reality that he and Krunk were all that stood between the North Vietnamese and a pivotal territory gain.

He decided to keep Krunk’s mind off the potential threat with conversation.

“So,” started Vice, “have you ever died for your country before?”

“No, sir, but I’m prepared to do so if necessary.”

It wasn’t an easy task; the boy’s mind wouldn’t let go of the danger, and it kept drawing Vice’s attention back to it.

“Don’t worry, son. We’ll get out of this alright,” assured Vice, patting Krunk on the shoulder. “So, son… you got a girl back home? A mother? A dad, burial arrangements, anything?”

Krunk turned pale white, which can cause freckling if you’re out in the sun too long. “You think the V.C. will come before back-up gets here?” he asked.

Vice shrugged. “Jeez, don’t you have anything happier to talk about? Murder, mayhem? Say… you like to go fishing? Ever had napalm dropped on you by your own troops?”

“We’ve got to get out of here soon, sergeant,” Krunk said, cradling his gun. “I don’t think I can stand too much more of this.”

Yep, the boy was close to cracking. Vice was worried about losing him. On the brighter side, if Krunk did give in to the madness and Vice had to kill him, his skull would make a perfect bowl to gather rainwater with. Fresh rainwater, all he could drink, with no one else to have to split it with—

Hush! thought Vice to himself, quietly. What was that sound in the bush? He shot Krunk to keep him quiet and steeled himself for a gunfight.

For more of this great story, buy Peyton Hofschwitz’s
D.M.Z. Confederacy of Assholes
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The L.I.E. Re-Novelized
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The Met Job
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