I remember Billy’s bright boyish face
His laughing blue eyes
His easy devilish grin
And those two dark red, juicy looking apples
Under a blazing Vietnamese sun
we stood in line…(hurry up and wait)
like human cattle
a heard of young Marines ready to stampede
waiting to board the choppers
and whirl off to battle
sweat oozed from every pore
the weight of the Grunt strapped on us
helmet, pack, never enough ammo, canteens –never enough water, grenades, claymores, flack jacket, etc., etc. etc.
fear sliced through our hearts
silence and gloom hung heavy in the air
then with a wink and flourish Billy reached into his pack
and like a magician pulling rabbits from his hat
he held out two dark red, juicy looking apples
his eyes sparkled with delight
as he watched me closely
“Billy…How? Where? When?
“Stole’em…cook’s hooch…last night.”
he tossed one over to me
that Paul Newman mischievous grin, curling
splitting his face from ear to ear
we laughed then attacked the fruit
they killed Billy that night.
Mark
May 28, 2018 10:33 am
Had Stopped Doing That
When they killed Tim
I didn’t watch the Corpsman
frantically work in vain
I didn’t help lay him in his poncho
or carry him away
or watch the copper
swallow him forever
had stopped doing that
just welcomed the familiar icy numbness
as it seeped in
and pretended to ignore the secret gnawing guilt
(relieved it wasn’t me)
just grabbed my E-tool
and dug my fighting hole deeper
I didn’t cry for Tim
had stopped doing that
a hundred years
and half a dozen friends ago
bluestem
May 28, 2018 11:14 am
May we someday have a time when we are not at war sacrificing the youth of this country for the agenda of those who have such a perceived need to have power and money thinking material things of this world will satisfy the greed that hardens their heart . John
Capn Mike
May 28, 2018 1:42 pm
Why if wasn’t for our boys, we’d all be speaking Farsi!
FWIW, I’m a Vietnam vet.
MrLiberty
May 28, 2018 2:40 pm
Today, these are some of the folks I will be remembering for their fight to protect our freedom:
[img[/img]
[img[/img]
[img[/img]
[img[/img]
[img[/img]
ken31
May 28, 2018 3:47 pm
The last soldiers who died to preserve out freedom, did so in the war of 1812. Every war since then has been for the benefit of Bankers and Oligarchs
I did 2 years of combat in Iraq, and it had nothing to do with freedom in America.
Even the war of 1812 was a crony-capitalist push to take over Canada. It pissed off the New England states so much that they threatened to secede. Who can honestly blame Britain for fighting tooth and nail to keep Canada after they had just lost the colonies? Truly our first BS war to “liberate” an “oppressed” country against their will. So, so many more would follow. Indeed, those soldiers helped to maintain the existence of a country free from British rule, but sadly, they too simply enabled the power-hungry designs of the ruling political elite, just like every war since. You might need to go back to the Revolutionary War.
Memorial Day has been transformed into a glorification of militarism, standing armies, foreign entanglements, and everything else the Founders opposed.
“War is the parent of armies; from these proceed debts and taxes; and armies, and debts, and taxes are the known instruments for bringing the many under the domination of the few.”
— James Madison
Not much has changed since Gen. Smedley Butler wrote “War is a Racket”, which should also be required reading in every high school history class:
The green sweat towel
covering what was left of his head
kept sliding off
then the swarming flies would dart in
for tiny morsels
of his gooey exposed brain
“Now ya is green and ah know ya is scared and nervous, all Nicky
New guys is…so I’m gonna stay up with ya on your first couple
of watches, kinda break ya in on the gun and a lotta other shit.
ole Big Jim takes care of his men, you’ll see.”
six of us has a handful
of the sagging poncho
like silent grim pallbearers
we strained and grunted
with the weight of his massive corpse
stumbling and weaving our way
through chest high swaying elephant grass
exhausted, weary from battle, still numb
“Ah, doan know, man I jis doan know! These crazy mohfuchas gonna
get us all kilt! Mark, you an Pillie start digging the gun pit
behind that dirt mound, ole Luke the Gook gonna pay us a visit
tonight for sure, … shee-it!”
after two hours
we finally staggered into our base camp past the acres of barbed wire
the maze of zigzagging trenches
and the squat sandbagged bunkers
there was a jeep waiting,
two Marines from Graves Registration
and one green plastic body bag
“I doan know about ya’ll, but when I get my sorry ass home and
out of this Mother green killing machine, NEVER, EVER, gonna
leave again…no sir! Musta been crazy leaving my fine ole
lady and my sweet little girls…good Lord do I miss ‘em!”
the squad stood in a half circle
silently staring at their dead corporal
the body bag was zipped open
gently, he was slipped in
one man started to sob
the jeep pulled away in a cloud of red dust
I scanned the eight Marines walking away
wondering,
Who would be next?
it didn’t take long to find out.
Anonymous
May 28, 2018 6:30 pm
TENNESSEE
He came from the green hills
of Tennessee
and that’s what we called him
short and muscular
with skin the color of coffee and cream
bright coal black eyes
a wide easy smile
and a slow confident walk
One day in the bush
we became foxhole buddies
over a prized can
of Dinty Moore Beef Stew
my Mother sent me
I’d been saving…
we crouched in the gun pit
brown juice dripping off our chins
grinning
C-rat fruit cocktail for dessert
hot coffee in our canteen cups
smoking two Hav-a Tampa Jewels!
the jungle feast was complete
our friendship was sealed
The patrols, ambushes, killer teams, snake bites
sweeps, operations and search and destroys
slowly passed
in a parade of fear, physical misery and boredom
adrenaline and gore
and occasionally
we’d visit one another’s fighting hole
for a jungle feast
The mortars came out of nowhere
exploding everywhere
heaving the earth up
into geysers of screaming shrapnel
in minutes it was over
and then I saw him
rolling and withering and gasping
on ground soaked red
by his blood
The corpsman worked furiously
to stem the flow
of the life pouring out of Tennessee
but he lay there dying
begging for the morphine
that quickly numbed
his last moments of pain and terror
I offered him a cigarette
and words of encouragement
he didn’t answer and I didn’t believe
then in a drug induced coma
he drifted off to death
and we gently wrapped him in a poncho
and silently carried him to the chopper
I walked away, a zombie Marine
grim and sad and scared and confused and weary and old
secretly ashamed
of my relief for still living
sitting in the gun pit
eating and smoking alone
trying not to feel
trying not to think
Anonymous
May 28, 2018 6:31 pm
Whoever fights monsters should see to it
that in the process he does not become a monster.
And when you look long into the abyss,
the abyss also looks into you.
Two Dark Red Juicy Looking Apples
I remember Billy’s bright boyish face
His laughing blue eyes
His easy devilish grin
And those two dark red, juicy looking apples
Under a blazing Vietnamese sun
we stood in line…(hurry up and wait)
like human cattle
a heard of young Marines ready to stampede
waiting to board the choppers
and whirl off to battle
sweat oozed from every pore
the weight of the Grunt strapped on us
helmet, pack, never enough ammo, canteens –never enough water, grenades, claymores, flack jacket, etc., etc. etc.
fear sliced through our hearts
silence and gloom hung heavy in the air
then with a wink and flourish Billy reached into his pack
and like a magician pulling rabbits from his hat
he held out two dark red, juicy looking apples
his eyes sparkled with delight
as he watched me closely
“Billy…How? Where? When?
“Stole’em…cook’s hooch…last night.”
he tossed one over to me
that Paul Newman mischievous grin, curling
splitting his face from ear to ear
we laughed then attacked the fruit
they killed Billy that night.
Had Stopped Doing That
When they killed Tim
I didn’t watch the Corpsman
frantically work in vain
I didn’t help lay him in his poncho
or carry him away
or watch the copper
swallow him forever
had stopped doing that
just welcomed the familiar icy numbness
as it seeped in
and pretended to ignore the secret gnawing guilt
(relieved it wasn’t me)
just grabbed my E-tool
and dug my fighting hole deeper
I didn’t cry for Tim
had stopped doing that
a hundred years
and half a dozen friends ago
May we someday have a time when we are not at war sacrificing the youth of this country for the agenda of those who have such a perceived need to have power and money thinking material things of this world will satisfy the greed that hardens their heart . John
Why if wasn’t for our boys, we’d all be speaking Farsi!
FWIW, I’m a Vietnam vet.
Today, these are some of the folks I will be remembering for their fight to protect our freedom:
[/img]
[/img]
[/img]
[/img]
[/img]
[img
[img
[img
[img
[img
The last soldiers who died to preserve out freedom, did so in the war of 1812. Every war since then has been for the benefit of Bankers and Oligarchs
I did 2 years of combat in Iraq, and it had nothing to do with freedom in America.
Slavery is freedom
War is peace
etc.
Even the war of 1812 was a crony-capitalist push to take over Canada. It pissed off the New England states so much that they threatened to secede. Who can honestly blame Britain for fighting tooth and nail to keep Canada after they had just lost the colonies? Truly our first BS war to “liberate” an “oppressed” country against their will. So, so many more would follow. Indeed, those soldiers helped to maintain the existence of a country free from British rule, but sadly, they too simply enabled the power-hungry designs of the ruling political elite, just like every war since. You might need to go back to the Revolutionary War.
Memorial Day has been transformed into a glorification of militarism, standing armies, foreign entanglements, and everything else the Founders opposed.
“War is the parent of armies; from these proceed debts and taxes; and armies, and debts, and taxes are the known instruments for bringing the many under the domination of the few.”
— James Madison
Not much has changed since Gen. Smedley Butler wrote “War is a Racket”, which should also be required reading in every high school history class:
https://ratical.org/ratville/CAH/warisaracket.html
BIG JIM
The green sweat towel
covering what was left of his head
kept sliding off
then the swarming flies would dart in
for tiny morsels
of his gooey exposed brain
“Now ya is green and ah know ya is scared and nervous, all Nicky
New guys is…so I’m gonna stay up with ya on your first couple
of watches, kinda break ya in on the gun and a lotta other shit.
ole Big Jim takes care of his men, you’ll see.”
six of us has a handful
of the sagging poncho
like silent grim pallbearers
we strained and grunted
with the weight of his massive corpse
stumbling and weaving our way
through chest high swaying elephant grass
exhausted, weary from battle, still numb
“Ah, doan know, man I jis doan know! These crazy mohfuchas gonna
get us all kilt! Mark, you an Pillie start digging the gun pit
behind that dirt mound, ole Luke the Gook gonna pay us a visit
tonight for sure, … shee-it!”
after two hours
we finally staggered into our base camp past the acres of barbed wire
the maze of zigzagging trenches
and the squat sandbagged bunkers
there was a jeep waiting,
two Marines from Graves Registration
and one green plastic body bag
“I doan know about ya’ll, but when I get my sorry ass home and
out of this Mother green killing machine, NEVER, EVER, gonna
leave again…no sir! Musta been crazy leaving my fine ole
lady and my sweet little girls…good Lord do I miss ‘em!”
the squad stood in a half circle
silently staring at their dead corporal
the body bag was zipped open
gently, he was slipped in
one man started to sob
the jeep pulled away in a cloud of red dust
I scanned the eight Marines walking away
wondering,
Who would be next?
it didn’t take long to find out.
TENNESSEE
He came from the green hills
of Tennessee
and that’s what we called him
short and muscular
with skin the color of coffee and cream
bright coal black eyes
a wide easy smile
and a slow confident walk
One day in the bush
we became foxhole buddies
over a prized can
of Dinty Moore Beef Stew
my Mother sent me
I’d been saving…
we crouched in the gun pit
brown juice dripping off our chins
grinning
C-rat fruit cocktail for dessert
hot coffee in our canteen cups
smoking two Hav-a Tampa Jewels!
the jungle feast was complete
our friendship was sealed
The patrols, ambushes, killer teams, snake bites
sweeps, operations and search and destroys
slowly passed
in a parade of fear, physical misery and boredom
adrenaline and gore
and occasionally
we’d visit one another’s fighting hole
for a jungle feast
The mortars came out of nowhere
exploding everywhere
heaving the earth up
into geysers of screaming shrapnel
in minutes it was over
and then I saw him
rolling and withering and gasping
on ground soaked red
by his blood
The corpsman worked furiously
to stem the flow
of the life pouring out of Tennessee
but he lay there dying
begging for the morphine
that quickly numbed
his last moments of pain and terror
I offered him a cigarette
and words of encouragement
he didn’t answer and I didn’t believe
then in a drug induced coma
he drifted off to death
and we gently wrapped him in a poncho
and silently carried him to the chopper
I walked away, a zombie Marine
grim and sad and scared and confused and weary and old
secretly ashamed
of my relief for still living
sitting in the gun pit
eating and smoking alone
trying not to feel
trying not to think
Whoever fights monsters should see to it
that in the process he does not become a monster.
And when you look long into the abyss,
the abyss also looks into you.
Nietzsche
Sometimes I wonder if some of these folks were not monsters well before the fighting began.
[img
[/img]
[/img]
[/img]
[/img]
[img
[img]http://cdn.newsapi.com.au/image/v1/59e2661e9aabdc737885527b28c9a67f[/img]
[img
[img
And to be clear, I’m talking about the Americans in the pics.