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I met Donald Clay on a visit to prison. As a writer and teacher of writing, I accompanied a psychologist, both of us hoping to encourage the prisoners he met with to write their stories. What follows are excerpts from Donald Clay’s work. —Donald Anderson In July 1970, Lance Corporal Torres was mortally wounded. I was not a member of that patrol. Torres had been my mentor, training me in the nuances of the lead position as point man. In my experience, point men are either foolhardy and reckless or extremely courageous. It can be said that the life of a team is in the hands of this individual. Torres epitomized the qualities and skills necessary for the position. Torres’s instructions were feats themselves. He had only a rudimentary grasp of English, but seldom, if ever, did a fresh hunk of grinder meat receive the full breadth of exact instructions such as I received from Torres. In the bush, as well as in the compound, he could admonish and implore me to use my eyes, ears, and sense of smell to detect the presence of enemy booby traps and troops. More important, he was instrumental in my learning to acknowledge and act on my intuition as a means of recognizing potential dangers, thereby minimizing the threat to men and mission. When I look at a cherished photograph, I am reminded of just how young and full of patriotism we were. Death, dying, or permanent disability were no concern; this sort of thing was what happened to other people. We did not know, or choose to accept, that we were all other people. In time, I was given the honor of leading my own team of six. Grim Reaper was our moniker. Walking through the compound one night to : d o n a l d c l a y Shadow Soldier S H A D O W S O L D I E R | 1 6 7 round up my team to prepare for a patrol, I heard the revelry of marines taking a break from the stress of war. I approached the noisy hooch only to overhear a braggart: “Can’t wait till I get back to the world. Why, back home, we’d get drunk and go nigger busting for real fun.” I entered the hooch. The revelry was replaced by a deafening silence. As I surveyed the hooch, I saw that two of my guys were part of the crowd. Here I am, a black team leader in a battalion with no black of- ficers and but one black staff NCO. What was it that hurt so intensely? I knew. Although daily risking my life for American principles and South Vietnamese freedom, I was to be reminded that despite any risk or patriotic conviction on my part, I would always be a nigger, and Torres, an exceptional marine, now dead, would always be a spic. The incident would affect me in ways I wouldn’t begin to fathom until years later. In addition to all else I ever felt in Vietnam, I also felt like a self-conscious twelve-year-old with a loaded weapon. Nonetheless, as Grim Reaper’s leader, I had a responsibility to protect and ensure the safety of the team: Dietrick, Miller, Knuth, Hooker, Doc, and Hughes. Grim Reaper was a collection of personalities that learned to function as a single -minded unit. I am most proud of one achievement in Vietnam above all others: Grim Reaper lost not one man. I was reared in Mississippi until age fifteen. Our small town was a sequestered enclave, underdeveloped and racially gerrymandered. Jonestown was a totally segregated section of Hollandale, Mississippi. The boundaries were rigid—physically, socially, and psychologically. Besides the railroad tracks, our community was bordered by interminable fields of cotton and soybeans. I worked in the cotton fields at an early age. Besides the stifling heat and work, there were the ubiquitous snakes. Rattlesnakes, copperheads, and water moccasins sure helped me develop survival instincts early. Sometimes the fields would be so parched they hardened like cement. Each swing of the hoe sent reverberations through my body like vibrations through a tuning fork. Conversely, whenever it rained, the mud would literally suck the tattered boots or worn shoes from my feet. I earned three dollars for a ten- to twelve-hour day. My formative years in Mississippi were spent going to school, playing, and learning about the dos and don’ts...

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