REFLECTIONS ON VETERANS DAY
(…a remembrance of times past)

Our family has had a long connection with things military, some of that going as far back as the Revolutionary War, and with almost every one since that time. So both Memorial Day and Veterans Day are more than just traditional moments of national observance for me, not such much about my own service as part of that family history, but about all those millions of other Americans who have done so as well.

Still, as time has marched along, it has become harder and harder to come up with something meaningful to comment about these observances, and avoid what now feels like tired old clichés about –Duty- , -Honor-, and –Country-. There has to be some other ways to do so, and one of these is to create another –tradition-.  So a Vietnam War friend of mine and I started one of those some twenty years ago. On each of these solemn occasions, we make a point of getting together at different places, participating or simply observing whatever ceremonials may be going on there; then, share a good lunch together (sometimes with others),  but always remembering to toast to veteran friends present and…those absent.

Today, however, I’m trying something else as well. Who knows how much longer I’ll be participating in such observances, so perhaps some of my past “poetry” attempts to express what being a veteran meant to me at the time may better illustrate it.

The items that follow were bits of “poetry” jotted down on whatever scraps of paper were available at the time, then later put away with a bunch of old books and other stuff (including some war time “souvenirs”) in a beat up  old footlocker, and left in storage for almost fifty years. When I eventually “rediscovered” that old locker a few years ago, I found them again. Many, barely legible by then, but, thanks to memory and almost forensic efforts to reconstruct them I was able to more or less restore them close to their original forms.

The first of these was the result of recalling the photo image of a dead GI, face down, his rifle and helmet planted by his boots, on one of those Normandy beaches, with a surge of surf washing over him, and seagulls casually strolling nearby. Don’t know who the Army combat photographer was who took that picture, but it was such a powerful image, I never forgot it. So shortly after the end of WWII, when everyone seemed to have stampeded for the exits, ready to forget about it all (who can blame them…it had been a very hard and terrible time), their apparent indifference to this day struck me as ironic…to say the least. Here’s what I wrote about it:

Chestertown, Maryland – 1946

SO SOON FORGOTTEN

Wearily thrusts the bayonet
that marks his lonely grave,
shattered is his helmet
that once protected him.

Muzzle down by his bloody boots
his rifle stands in silent sentry,
its rotting leather sling
shivering in the breeze.

A pounding surf flings foaming spray
which comes to moisten silent lips,
while only seagulls come to call,
and scream his praise.

Well, that was two years before I enlisted, and my turn to serve. Both of my parents, my uncle, a number of cousins, and others that I knew, had served in that war, most, thankfully, returning from it unharmed, but even they seemed indifferent. For them it seemed to be just another episode of their lives, nothing to make a to do about, besides which they were focused on picking up the pieces and moving on. Or so it seemed, which may explain my reaction.

Later, having received my –Draft- notice, I opted to enlist instead. The recruiting sergeant almost fainted when I walked in saying I was enlisting. No one in his right mind was. The Boom Years were just starting. It didn’t matter, I was at loose ends. The old boy was a veteran, a surviving paratrooper, so he had no difficulty of getting me to go for that. Next thing I knew, I was going to be a paratrooper myself…learning how to voluntarily leave a perfectly good aircraft in mid-air! Before that could happen, however, I had to go through… Boot Camp, so this next one will no doubt strike a chord with all those who’ve experienced … Boot Camp:

Camp Pickett, Virginia – 17^th Airborne Division, 1949

WINTER REVEILLE

Frosty mists of a reluctant dawn
swirl and mix with vapor trails of breaths
from shadowed forms and shapes
of ambling, shambling men,
as yip-voiced squad leaders
try herding them into a loose assemblage
vaguely resembling military order.

Then with low-woofed sounds,
they call their rolls and face about
to the top-kick’s solitary ramrod form,
whose deep-growled voice
commands attention, and report.

He too then smartly turns about,
giving his own flourished salute
to the silent form that commands them all,
while all this stirs a restless mass,
made anxious by alluring mess hall smells,
impatient for release from this mystical ritual
beginning yet another military day.

Ah, the good times! The military life was not all blood and guts. Perhaps I’m weird, but since that moment, reveille, was my favorite military time of day. Much later, when I became that…silent form commanding them all…I rarely missed one (my First Sergeant often complaining that such a regular presence made the troops nervous … and didn’t I have other concerns?). What he didn’t realize was that this was my way to gage my unit’s mood of the day…taking its pulse so to speak.

But then, as in every era of service, there came those darker times. Times which too often came back as grim overlays to the lighter moments of military life, haunting memories which though dimmed by time never, never…fade away. If Korea was just a -Police Action- then something got lost in translation, because it was…a war. These next items came from that time:

Korea-1950

TO MY KOREA GI’S

So brave, so brave
those valiant beating hearts,
so true, so true.

So bare, so bare,
those shallow mounds of earth,
so new, so new.

I’ve been a fan of Marines since the age of 12, when I first encountered them (becoming a temporary mascot for a small squad of them, during the fall of France in 1940). So, to later find myself in their hands again, after their landings at Inchon, as the first friendly faces to come our way after too many weeks of being abandoned, and unrelieved, seemed like a dream. Before long, I found myself cleaned, trimmed, sporting fresh Marine fatigues, and being treated to real food, though kindly restrained to prevent my gorging it down like a winter-starved wolf (which in a way…we were). My weight was down to a scarecrow 148 pounds, some fifty pounds less, than what I was before.

Given a choice, I would have stayed with them…and the Army could go screw itself…as far as I was concerned. But it was not to be because, alas, the Army didn’t believe in those kinds of transfers, so I was quickly evac-ed back to Japan. Our Marine pals, meanwhile, had more serious business to take care of…all the way to the Yalu.

It was while languishing in Tokyo General hospital, for physical checking before being returned to my original parent unit on Okinawa, that the following item came along:

Tokyo, Japan – Reflections on Korea-1950

OLD-MAN CHIEF

I grew old, at twenty-two,
night after night, watching brave young boys
eager as wolf cubs – hunger driven –
prepare for another night’s hunt
to feed their brothers of our pack.

I grew old, at twenty-two,
as into darkness they would lope away,
grinning, with eyes bright – certain, cocksure –
they’d soon be bringing back enough
for all to last another day.

I grew old, at twenty-two,
dawn after dawn, waiting for young wolves
to come bounding home – gleeful, smiling –
proudly prancing for all they’d brought,
but, slowly, fewer ever did.

I grew old, at twenty-two,
an old-man chief, one of four when found,
leading only ghosts – memory haunted
by the loss of such companions
whose bones yet lie somewhere, all unsung.

Almost a year later, now a six-stripper, selected to become an –Officer- I found myself in a temporary holding assignment as a D.I. (Drill Instructor) for a Boot Camp cycle at Ft. Ord, CA. My disgust with being given such a task, to turn unsuspecting youths into cannon-fodder ready for that distant carnage in Korea, almost got me court-martialed (we had strict orders not to mention Korea, in any way), because I insisted on telling those kids the reality of the truth they faced. When we parted at cycle’s end, however, their cheerful thanks for my efforts, made me realize there was some saving grace to it, after all. Most went straight over to Korea, and, I’ve often wondered if my efforts to make sure they were prepared for that led many to make it back. This was what followed from that:

Fort Ord, California -1951 –

THE D.I.

Far from Korea’s shattered shores, and crushing private loss,
I stand in chevron-sleeved glory, duty bound to mold
sheep-brained youth into some semblance of being dogs of war.

So I growl and snarl and curse my lot, for being made a Judas-goat,
who must prepare them for the carnage they will surely all have to face,
despite any promises otherwise given them.

Forbidden to mention harsh reality, subject to sanctions for doing so,
I disdain the mendacity of such taboos, pleading earnestly
for their fixed attention so that they may return whole – not in a box.

Alas, my passion for their readiness, only wets their appetites for glory,
though not my desired intention, but gratified by their devotion to learn,
I yield them hard-earned survival knowledge.

At cycle’s end, when it means their leaving, my ghost-haunted mind is proud,
they have become bright war-pups and true war-dogs they may yet be,
still, such pride is mixed with sadness as I watch them go.

But harder moments are yet to come, for each bright-eyed youth reaches out
to shake my hand in thanks, cheerful, grinning, full of pride and hope,
while silently I can only nod, and to myself… grimly pray….god-speed.

Well, these are but a portion of such reflections, there are more, but these were the most relevant to my new perspectives about Veterans Day. They’re not original in genre. Others, from other times and other wars have written much the same no doubt. But no matter what the era, it is our common thread of experience and common bond.

Some years ago, when several WWII friends and my father had passed away, I then wrote this closing thought:

Paris, France- November, 1996

FOR ALL OUR FATHERS

One by one they slowly fade away
those grand heroes of our youth.
old defenders of our liberties,
for which they had sacrificed so much.

Steadfast always to their faith
of pursuing happiness in life,
unsung to all but we who knew them,
they go to deserved rest,
a glory for our remembrance.

For me, therefore, there are now two very distinct annual national moments. The first, Memorial Day, belongs to all those who care to remember what those who served, gave, thus making due homage to them for having done so. The second, Veterans Day, however, is just that…Our Day…not the nation’s… a day by which we get to recall that adventure of our youth, the exuberances of our pleasures in it (not to mention their excesses), the sheer terrors of our combat moments, their despairs and grief over lost companions, the outlandish hilarities of completely insane situations which we’d never find back in -The World – A “world” to which we all  eventually returned, only to find that we few, we precious few, veterans, have forever become… strangers to, and in, that world..

Yet, there is a consolation about that, which lets me smile a lot…as I watch or hear some political twit sounding off those old clichés on this occasion. That twit, that world, will never know or understand what it means to be…a veteran…and that…small comfort though it may be…makes it all worthwhile.

CENTURION