In Another Country a Small Town Is Forgotten

by Michael McManus

One minute you’re telling lies
to your buddy about cold beer and hot women
in some Austin bar that summer
before you went downrange
and into the minute after
where lies are forgotten because
the shot you hear
is followed by the near simultaneous
unforgettable sound of bullet
smashing into skull and exiting
into a slow-motion moment
when your buddy collapses face down
on the dusty ancient road of a city
one-hundred thousand miles
from the small Ohio town he grew up in
and left behind to come to where
he would leave his name as another
who would never hear
the suppressive fire that explodes
in his defense on the suspected location of the shooter
who won’t be found by the fear-faced boys
that go on screaming through their M4 carbines
that will turn them into men
as the field radio operator calls in coordinates
from behind a Humvee
where he wants to stay invisible
unlike the Apaches that soon racket overhead
hoping for a hard target to destroy
but for you it doesn’t matter
because as you cradle your buddy’s head
it’s like trying to piece together
a shattered clay pot.
And there’s blood on your hands.
So much blood on your hands.

A Pennsylvania native, Michael P. McManus has lived in Louisiana since 1986. He began to write in the late 90’s. His poems and short stories have appeared in many journals. He has been awarded a writing Fellowship from the Louisiana Division of the Arts, and the Virginia Award and Ocean’s Prize for poetry. He is a Navy Veteran and service-connected Disabled Veteran.

The Wall

by Trista Miller

We arrived, casualties came. We were prepared to treat the “injury” but unable to touch the “wounds”. We knew how to treat the Soldier who lost a limb but next to him, fully conscious, was you…covered in proof of the gravity of the attack; and I can’t help you. We scramble to locate water to wash away the reminder, the remainder of your friend. You want out of your own skin, your own thoughts and I have no drug, no tourniquet to cut off the flood of memories from washing back in. You are the unanticipated casualty that we are not prepared for; our preparation has prepared us to avoid this kind of pain, this kind of awareness of deep, inner, helplessness. You cry out, a cry that lives in all of us but remains suppressed by our own walls, but here you are-raw, hurting, angry, exhausted and your walls are down- blown down on impact. You are vulnerable, showing your injured spirit that is searching for comfort, connection, empathy from another, another spirit willing to be vulnerable, willing to climb over their wall to meet you, to bring the kind of healing you need. You are surrounded by injured spirits whose walls are still too tall to climb, still high and functioning. Instead we offer sedatives and MEDEVACs. Finish your healing elsewhere. Our walls are too high and we need them to function, in fact, we just pick up pieces of your crumbled wall to add to our height.

Revelation 21:4

Trista Miller served in the Army as a Medical Service Officer from 2003-2012. Assigned to 26th Bridge Support Battalion, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division, she deployed in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom III and IV. She is married and working at the Stetson University College of Law. Her writing can be viewed at her blog: http://thelowerstory.wordpress.com/.

The Dress Uniform

by Kay Boulware

(To Her Father)

A metallic brilliance adorned the table as she buffed away with steady strokes the thick white cream that she had smoothed onto familiar brass objects just moments before. Whenever he asked, this was a task that she assumed with pride and dedication. After all, he was her father. The eagle, the star, and the buckle were among the combat insignia that were her playmates, earnest comrades that came alive on a polished playground of preparation, allegiance and love. They were her father’s medals.

She cleaned and shined with devotion and a girlish hope of tales from memories of faraway places.

…Air raids, fire, plunder, ash, and bombed and broken cities;
Torn banners, distant munitions, battle hymns, unspoken words and penetrating stares in a foreign tongue, and liberty scripted in history;

…Faded words of love on paper weathered by time, discovered in a fallen soldier’s pocket, destined for a vacant heart left behind; and

Fragrant whispers that echo still from kimonos of rivers, misty mountains, and dynasties of green teas and silk…

But the memories were not hers to remember…they belonged to her father.

She would keep them just the same.

Kay Boulware’s father served during World War II and the Korean Conflict. As a former “army brat,” she has never let go of the spirit of the military family. “The Dress Uniform” came from a childhood memory of shining the pins and ornaments that adorned the uniform of her father, Master Sergeant Winthrop Jones Boulware.

The Oldest Lie

by Michael Fay

They will not rise
These dead
They will not turn again
Mudsweat faces to the sun
Nor to the sounding gunfire run

Down they’ll go
Down deep and deeper
To the deepest gravity all souls obey
For the ever
And the day

Mothers, they will long recall
Friends awhile, then not at all
And the dead will perfectly remain
Dead to one
And dead to all

Two mothers asked
About their sons
Please help us know a little more
Of their last days
Just before

So called again, the old art must arise
To raise for mothers the old, old lies
I was there and saw them die
And now again to mothers ply
The resurrected oldest lie

Chief Warrant Officer-2 Michael D. Fay served as the official combat artist for the United States Marine Corps from January 2000 until the last day of 2009. In this role Fay deployed twice each to Afghanistan and Iraq during the current GWOT, and once as a free-lance correspondent and illustrator for the Kandahar Journal of Canada’s National Post and New York Times newspapers. He organized and directs The Joe Bonham Project, a cooperative venture of the International Society of War Artists and the Society of Illustrators that visits with and sketches America’s most profoundly wounded combat veterans.