In some nights, the darkness throws me out over the delta. Other sleep has plunged me up into the black smoke and thin air of the highlands. Then there are those nights in midday darkness, the triple canopy, where dreams swallow you off to struggle through the damp humidity and decay of that other lifetime. With this morning, like countless others, I crawl up out of it all and into the day with the same confusion of guilt and joy. First it is the guilt, remembering those that did not get to share my walk out to the ramp of the 'Freedom Bird.' Then comes the rush of joy, twisted from the sleep, realizing that the night's evil work was from another time, a distant place, and we are again among the living in a much less dangerous land.

          One would have expected all of that to be gone by now. It has not.

          The long drive in from work last night had me unusually tired. The choice was to 'hit the sack' rather then do the Friday night grocery thing. Now with the new day, past the bedroom window, past the morning breeze and sunlight, I shuffled over to the kitchen counter, and found the can. Thumbing up the plastic lid, one sleepy eye slowly focused in at the round silver bottom of the empty tin. Morning cravings were pulling me toward the 'Spoon' and coffee.

          Like so many other mornings over the garage, the cheap wallpaper of this place was soon pressing in upon my restless nature. I was quickly shaved, dressed and out the door.

          Twelve minutes later, the screen slammed at my heals as I stepped into Saturday morning at the 'Spoon.' Like me, some of the regulars were drifting in to contribute their part to ritual conversation and the associated cup lifting, the sugaring, the sipping and stirring in the hot black liquid.

          There was plenty of room. The second side booth looked good. From there, one could watch the unfolding morning drama.

          I wondered if others felt the same way I did about this place.

          The Spoon is like a large rock in a swift current, a place to go when one needs a wholesome bite of the hospitable or a sip of stability. At the 'Spoon,' lives come together making larger things. It is a good place where fragmented and confused events often find reason and meaning there among the others, like bits of fabric snipped from myriad lives and fitted to form a community quilt.

          The conversation this morning was taking a very wide circle, swinging way out there over topics of storms, rodeo livestock, basketball salaries, cooking odors, work shoes, pet food, Hong Kong, mosquitoes and 'Skin So Soft'.

          One of the young men in the booth behind me had just returned from South Texas where he had closed on the purchase of a country home. According to him, the house was fairly new. Yet, the place was secluded and had remained without occupants for several years after the original owners' marriage broke up. Numerous critters had made it their home.

          The fellow was telling of his mistake at leaving his cloths in a pile on the bedroom floor while he slept. With the morning, he had slipped them back on to go out to the front yard to feed the pup.

          About thirty feet out the front door, it hit him hard inside the right leg. Just above the ankle, the pain of fire exploded. Within a fraction of a second, two secondary explosions of Puppy chow and water rose with his screams in the morning air. In the confusion, he turned and started back toward the house. It hit again, this time right in the center of his calf. Again he screamed and tried to take another step toward the house. In an instance, he thought of dropping his pants right there, out in the middle of the front yard, instead, he took another step toward the house. This time the fire of venom in the dagger on its tail hit him solidly on the inside above his knee. Again he screamed. He ripped open the buckle and dropped his pants. ''To hell with it all'' if anyone saw him there with his pants down. This was ''serious shit.'' The thought of another hit, higher on his leg was unbearable. This nightmare had to end.

          As the pants dropped to cover his shoes, the little, tan Texas scorpion jumped from his leg and scurried out into the dew droplets and buffalo grass. There the fellow was, standing out in the yard in front of his new home. The morning sun illuminated him like a spotlight. He stood there with his pants down around his ankles.

          Partially dazed, he began to realize what had happened and now the pain was starting to ease. His tongue felt thick and would not work. The muscles on that side of his body were twitching without control. He remembered hearing that these things, in this part of the country, were not deadly.

          Just in time for the show, one of his new neighbors was driving past. Out there on the road, the fellow had his whole family loaded in the car, all dressed up and headed in for Sunday morning services. All of them laughed and waved, as if to say ''Welcome to Texas!''

          It was a fine story to mix with the morning coffee. However, the week's groceries were not going to shop for themselves. I left the stories, the booth and my empty cup at the 'Spoon' in favor of provisions for the coming week.

          Later, with shopping out of the way, cabinets filled and paper bags folded, the thought of a little more sleep drew me to the bed. Still dressed, except for shoes, I relaxed and smiled remembering the fellow's story at the cafe. Under the late morning light, I began to sink into sleep but found, instead, the darkness of that other world.

          In confusion and frustration, the young officer fires a single shot in the air, taking all of us to our stomachs in the sticky blood red mud. The shot sets off the rush of fear. You never get used to the torrent of adrenaline. Like sliding turtles, under our rucks, we go belly skidding down the mountain side, among the mold and jungle undergrowth.

          When no other shots follow, the fear turns to rage. As I stop sliding, I realize that it was probably the captain, lost again. It was not the sound of an AK. I should have caught it. It was an M16. That damned captain has to be crazy! This is the third time he has strayed from his own company and gotten lost in the bamboo. Why doesn't he take an R.T.O and a radio with him? What is his problem?

          I think to myself,''That incompetent ass! That fool! He is going to get us all killed!''

          Knowing that it will take a few minutes for the second lieutenant, with the help of whatever was left of the first platoon, to find the inept ''boob,'' I rolled over to my side and relax in the muddy dark silence. Then I crawled back up the bank to the narrow foot path hacked from the lush vegetation only a few minutes earlier. At the path, I was too tired to do anything else. I lay there.

          For a moment, I close my weary eyes. I think, ''We are nothing more then pack mules to these people.''

          If you were drafted, and you end up in the infantry, you begin to figure it all out. The enemy is out there, dressed in black, coming in from the north, but the enemy is also right here, the incompetent ones giving you orders, taking your life and using you. They are the ones that draft you in the beginning and they are those that lust after fame, after rank. You are nothing more to them then coinage for their aspirations.

          There is no easy way out of this. Self respect keeps you from lashing out against the foolish enemy who is near. You must survive in spite of it all. That is the only way one can play this terrible game and have something of a soul on the other side, if you make it through.

          Jeez, the shoulder straps are cutting into me today. I stink. I need a bath and a clean set of cloths. The supply chopper has not come for three days. The bacteria and mold is growing on my skin. It is in my cloths. The filth and fabric pulls across my back. It is like fire and needles on my red flesh.

          A thin green bamboo viper silently moves above my bed in the mud. I stay still long enough for it to get on past before trying to roll over and get my legs under me.

          Eighty-five pounds of ruck-sack is a god-awful load for any man.

          Yeah, they took one look at me and said, ''he looks big and dumb. He can carry the M60.''

          So here I am with burning skin, covered in mold and red mud. If light ever came to this place it would find me looking like a crazed Mexican movie bandit. Under the ruck-sack from hell, like a Christmas tree, two full bandoleers hang like surreal strings of a different kind of pop corn. Kind of like X marks the spot. Shoot me here. Right here, between the hand grenades and the smoke grenades, where the strips of M60 ammo cross. If you do it right perhaps the Claymore in my pack and C-4 in my pants pockets will explode, as well. Yes, you could turn me into one little explosion dwarfed by the vastness of this jungle hell. Yes, and your marksmanship would be celebrated several weeks later, taking the form of a stranger at my parents' front door.

          I tell myself to shut up and quit feeling sorry. None of the anger and pouting is going to help me survive. I have to survive. I can not let it beat me.

          ''To hell with them all,'' I grawl out, in the silent wet darkness of late morning.

          I talk to myself, saying, ''I will make it or die trying.''

          ''Shit! That is funny.''

          ''That is the truth of my life in a moment.''

          ''Aren't I just profound?''

          My private game of cynicism and forced humor was interrupted by faint movement up the trail. We were on the move again. ''They must have found the stupid bastard who is supposed to be our leader.''

          Like the rest of the men, I jerked up and under the load, centering it up over me and started placing one muddy boot ahead of the other. Silently our fragile, thin spaced line of yesterdays' little American boys begins again to slither through the thick foliage on a mission to no particular place.

          I was not Sisyphus. Without respite, I was not destined to roll my rock up a steep cliff. My version of that hell had the weight explosive and upon me as I slid and fumbled an endless, lonely gauntlet of mud through the bamboo darkness.

          Later in the day, the leeches began to rain down upon us. High above us, driven by instinct and movement below, they crawled by the thousands to the edge of their monsoon leaf puddles. Then they came falling. Fat, short little rubbery blood sucking worms bounced from our helmets and from our shoulders and packs. Some of the torrent found a ripped sleeve or torn pant leg. Others moved in around my collar.

          They were there, I could feel them. Hanging there, sucking, growing fat. I could not stop. I would loose sight of the man in the darkness ahead of me. One foot ahead of the other, and the leeches kept sucking. Now I could feel them in my arm pits and crotch. Any soft flesh was fair game and a good spot for their lunch. Some were behind my ears, one at my neck. I brushed one out from below my nostril. I could not stop. This GI and all the men behind me would be lost in the jungle. I could not stop and loose sight the man up ahead. He was my tie to the company. Staying with him in distant view was part of my mission. The orders were for us to never bunch up. We had to stay apart. They could mow us all down if we were together. We marched on past noon and then, finally, a faint echo of human voices came through the dark silence. It was not distinguishable at first. Then as it came closer, I began to hear it. ''Leech break.'' ''Leech break.'' ''Leech break.'' The sounds crawled over the black bamboo silence for the length of our unit. Then each of us stopped and began searching for salt, for a knife, for anything to rid ourselves of the parasites. Fiendishly we worked at extracting the fat little worms from hell.

          I was on the trail above several switchbacks and overlooking one of the rare open areas of the jungle. A few thin gold slivers of light found paths through the canopies and left a dim light on the distant men below. Like myself, each was alone, standing naked to their ankles, salting, picking and scraping at the nasty black, bloody critters.

          There in that place, at that time, this all struck me as funny. No, it was damned hilarious. Like the others, I was standing there, naked, in a war zone, in a jungle, in a distant and strange land, like a fool, a symbol for the weakness and limitations of humanity. It was as if I had been asked to pose for another visual sermon by Hieronymus Bosch.

          The red cardinal was again singing at the window above the garage, and again I made the crawl back up out of that other place to join the living. As sleep left me, dream memory gave way to another memory and the morning visit to the 'Spoon'. I found myself thinking of the story by the fellow in the booth behind me. What an image, the scorpion scampering off into the front yard, him standing there with his pants around his ankles, and the neighbor family on their way to church and wondering just what kind of a nut had moved in over there.