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RECOLLECTIONS: "LZ 24"

By Dennis Kroll

On my first trip to the West Coast to organize for Dewey Canyon IV, I had spent some 150+ hours riding on a Greyhound. On my second trip after only 30-some hours on the dog, my back was starting to take on the shape and the smell of a bus seat. After taking the trip from Portland down to L.A., I knew it was time for a little R&R.

The bus had dropped me off at the gate to Dana Point State Beach Park around 11 PM, and I no more than had my ponchos strung up when it started to rain, and the rain lasted for days.

I was startled when I peaked our from my hootch the next morning, but not as startled as the other "campers" were to see me. I thought I had seen some big-ass motorhomes before, but these were bigger than big-ass. The occupants were looking out of their rain-streaked patio doors and I was peeking out of the hole in one of my poncho's that kept me moist throughout the night.

Around noon the sky dried up and I pulled out my rucksack and dug out some chow. I'd brought alone some heat tabs, so I had a lunch of warm Pork 'n' Beans. My neighbors pulled out their patio deck, unrolled their awning, and cooked their steaks on a grill they had plugged into the side of the motorhome. By the time I had heated water for a cup of coffee I thought I was having a flashback. In the distance I could hear the sound of choppers, not just a few, but what sounded like a full-scale combat assault.

Six waves Hueyes went over, including gunships and Cobras. Five inures later can the Chinooks and Flying Cranes

I walked down to the Ranger Station and found out that there was a joint military operation going on in the desert. So, for a few days, listening to the sound of the rain and choppers, smelling the wet ponchos and the heat tabs, my R&R turned into my own personal combat zone.

To kill the time and keep some peace of minds, I wrote some short stories and poems. Here's one of them:

LZ 24
(Campsite #24)
How could they know
that a war
was raging on
at Campsite #24
Their motorhomes and limousines
Plugged into their own realities.
I in mine, a poncho hootch,
I lock and load a magazine...
Now almost thirteen years later since I was traumatized and abused
I light my heat tab
and warm my beans.
I'm bitter for having been used,
So when they hear my cry
and wonder why
a helicopter disturbs my sleep,
I'm not dreaming
only weeping
from scars
buried
deep.

—Dennis Kroll
Madison VVAW