flashquake Nonfiction
Honorable Mention

flashquake
Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On
by Rick Whitaker

I used to be able to recall all 50 States from memory. It was a technique I used to stay awake on ambush in Vietnam. About 20 minutes into my watch, I’d be hit by an overwhelming desire to sleep. We were always exhausted, in aching need of sleep at all times, and regardless of the danger, sitting quietly in the dark on ambush would knock you out. So I’d play memory games to stay awake. I’d picture a map of the US, and then start mentally ticking off the 50 States. Beginning in the upper right-hand corner. Maine.

I’d start to get fuzzy somewhere in the Midwest. What’s that state just below South Dakota? Nebraska? Uh, did I just doze off? No, I don’t think so. Then why am I all the way over in Hawaii and have only 47 states? Better start again.

It’s counterintuitive that being on combat ambush patrol can put you to sleep, but that’s the case. How can you nod off hurtling down a dark highway following a hard day at the office? Now that’s crazy! But after four of five of us would set up at some unmapped trail intersection, put the claymore mines out and spread our poncho liners — everybody sacked out but the one on watch — then your drained, exhausted body would begin its urgent petitioning.

“Come on, what’s the problem with 40 winks? No one’s going to know, they’re all asleep. You need it s-o-o-o bad. You won’t sleep that long. Probably be refreshed and more alert for the rest of your watch. Come on, just let your head nod down here a little. At’s a boy, doesn’t that feel good? Now close the eyes. Yes, yes, only for a second.”

When you’re contemplating taking a nap doing 70 mph on Interstate 95, you can roll down the window, slap your face, turn the radio up, sing show tunes. Alone in the jungle, trying to surprise your enemy before he surprises you, however, these actions are more dangerous than actually falling asleep.

Memory games were the answer. Once I had a complete list of the States, I’d start in on the Capitals. Sitting cross-legged in the tropical night, gazing over some random rice paddy, watching for that telltale movement, and struggling with, “Is it Reno or Carson City for Nevada? Maybe it’s Boise.”

“For Nevada?”

Hmm, better start again.

© 2002 by Rick Whitaker

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