The message was loud and clear that snow showers were in store for us tonight. I acknowledged the message and hung up with a smile. The next sound from my perch above the runway was a pair of F4 Phantoms screaming down the runway, destined for the Mekong River aviators called the Fence. It separated eastern Thailand from the western banks of Laos.

With the mid-shift over, it was time for twenty-four hours off from the grind and pressures of war pushing into its eighth year. The half-mile trek to the barracks or hooch was located a quarter of a mile from the base perimeter of barbed wire, trip flares, and jungle. The locals, ranging from older men and women to young boys and girls, scurried about laundering clothes, shining boots, and general housekeeping. An outdoor shower and a fresh set of civvies were all that was needed to propel us to our rendezvous with the impending snow.

The departure from Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai Air Force Base, better known as NKP or Naked Fanny, deposited us into a world of a shockingly bleak shanty village across the main highway of compressed stone and gravel. The cardboard village was surrounded by rice paddies and stilted huts that housed families who tended the land. This would be the scene repeated in either direction.
Options for travel were by bus or the ever-present Baht truck. The bus was held together (literally) by duct tape, crude metal patches, and planks of wood while grinding gears propelled it along the makeshift highway. The Baht truck was usually a Japanese pickup truck with two padded seats running parallel to the length of the cargo area, with decorative wrought iron supports for the cab’s ornate roof. This was the go-to travel in these parts. The passenger list could include a toothless mama-son drooling beetle-nut from her smiling face, a small family with food from the market, or a farmer with his prize poultry. When traveling in the back of the vehicle, the low sun would cascade over the geometric patterns of the rice paddies, creating reflective pools of light and color. The fragrant scent of smoke that lingered in the air completed the euphoric moment; any signs of conflict were far away.

Slapping the side of the pickup signaled the driver to drop us off at a small village called Nong Yat. It was pure National Geographic with primitive dirt roads flanked by stilted huts, curious villagers, and chickens that patrolled erratically in all directions. A common sight would be partially clothed children guiding one-thousand-pound water buffalos as we would walk a dog back in the States. We lived in two worlds: one grounded in a regional conflict and the other in a tranquil, simple world amplified by the intoxicants we ingested.

The infamous Golden Triangle, which included Thailand, Burma, and Laos, was the source of the euphoria and escape we were seeking- it fed the cravings of our culture. We would seek out an old man with stringy facial hair and glassy eyes who would gleefully supply us with small quantities of the devil dust. The cost of a vial of heroin was pocket change, as were the bundles of powerful Thai sticks that were readily available in this little village or NKP city, a few clicks to the east.

A bamboo bong with a mahogany bowl made by the locals was the paraphernalia of choice. The Thai stick would be ground and packed loosely into the bowl with a sprinkle of heroin on top; hence, snow showers. The drug cocktail offered different effects. The Thai stick smoke would explode in the lungs while the subtlety of the powder would take its toll on its victim over time, like a slow death. Those who were new to this activity were treated to projectile vomit as it was the body’s way of rejecting its presence. Over time, the Asian powder cajoles the body; it then steals the mind and releases the soul. But the horror of this practice would take others to a new low in this shattered part of the world. The use of needles was non-existent due to the cost and availability. The alternative was not pretty but grotesquely effective. A razor blade was used to slice the skin of arms, hands, and legs, as the powder was packed into the open breach. Scars from slice marks took the place of needle marks found in the West. But sullen eyes and emaciated bodies remained a constant.

As time moved on, the effect of drugs and alcohol took their toll on our bodies and our minds. One morning, when shaving in the outdoor latrine, my image looked back at me with a question, “What are you doing?” It was my Van Halen moment about looking over the edge- a place where you lose friends and life. Was it my conscience or divine intervention? In my heart of hearts, I knew the answer.

That day changed my life, while others were not so lucky.

Watching friends continue down this path was difficult. With clear eyes, I watched as their bodies and minds continued to decline with binge alcohol as the only means to escape the enslavement; sadly, only for the moment.
Perched above the runway, the warm, humid night gave way to spotlights that bathed the area like a cozy blanket. I felt a new calm with the thoughts of going back to the world on the horizon.

Like every night, the jungle teemed with nocturnal noises of things that crawl and fly. But tonight, it was different. The ever-present flying hordes filled the light with their fierce dance. As I sat mesmerized by the sight, it reminded me of …snow.

Dan Nicholas’ fiction genres (literary, dystopian, fantasy, and science fiction) have appeared in 360tomorrows and Down in the Dirt online magazines, and he has received an invitation to post his work with the Brooklyn Film and Arts Festival for his accounts on growing up in Brooklyn. A United States Air Force veteran, Dan has drawn on his military experiences, early love for science fiction, and other life experiences to create a diverse catalog, utilizing his vivid sense of place, realism, and imagination in his writing.