Sep 28
by Carl Palmer
my son just got back
from his second tour in Iraq
no ticker-tape parade
no welcome home celebration no media coverage
“Good Morning, America” didn’t spoil breakfast with the newscast
no one should see the caskets
the 23 flag draped caskets
they did show pictures of prisoner abuse that day
and the next
my son just got back
from his second tour in Iraq Read more
by William Blome
The girl with the great big bosom in a bright red sweater is desperate to hide from the advancing grenadiers, but she can’t hide in just this early morning fog, it isn’t thick enough. She’s going to need a big sycamore tree to get behind, and then she’ll have to flatten herself against the tree face-forward if she’s to have any chance at all of evading the grenadiers. Her other problem, however, is to have enough luck not to be hit by the sporadic mortar fire that’s falling through the canopy of trees, for mortar fire is a sine qua non for grenadiers before they advance anywhere (save in chow lines or crowded latrines). Assuming there’s one grenadier now advancing on the girl and another grenadier witnessing the first grenadier starting to rape the girl against a sycamore, it’s fair to conjecture: what are the odds that the witnessing grenadier will break cover and confront the advancing grenadier about, say, the differences between lust and love?
William C. Blome served in the First Infantry Division during the war in Vietnam. Now he writes short fiction and poetry. He lives between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars.
by Terry Sanville
The mini-skirted stewardess picked her way down the aisle of the shuddering 707 jetliner, bending every few steps to speak to a soldier. When she got to my seat, she stooped and murmured, “Have a safe tour of duty, Private.” I guess I looked scared. Outside, columns of dark smoke rose from Biên Hòa Airport, from the end of a runway that our flight angled toward. No one spoke; the rush of the air conditioning and the engines’ roar made the only sounds. Our trays had been stored in their upright positions, seatbelts cinched tight, prayers offered.
by Erich Forschler
It was hard enough to listen to those hills and those woods when it was dry and sunny. Then the rain came and it came down hard, slapping the gold and brown leaves that still clung to the trees, and otherwise dominating his ears with the sound of the downpour. The boy had complained about having to “make water” so they finally stopped halfway up the hill so the boy could make water while his father crouched and listened with one hand on a tree trunk, and the other hand on the musket that lay across his knees.
by Neil Leinwohl
We came aboard.
One by one.
Smelling of canvas and gun oil.
Following the guidon.
The numbered cloth we belonged too.
Just like in the movies.
This would be the newsreel insert.
To some Hollywood version of our lives.
The lucky would be surprised someday.
“Hey that’s me!”
The rest of the movie would be ruined.
Aboard the ark we stowed our past.
And practiced not writing letters.
The rolling water reminded us we were soldiers.
For 21 days we sharpened knives.
And threw up on the fish.
At Subic Bay we ate like prisoners condemned to death.
Which some were.
The next morning we found out what hot is.
And marched across a beach at port arms.
We saw our first helicopter crash.
And a woman eat the biggest bug in the world.
We drew real 5.56.
Then went to sleep until the mortar attack.
We woke.
Hid for a while.
Discussed close calls.
And went back to sleep.
Then the Sandman whispered a secret.
Gentleman welcome to the rest of your life.
Neil Leinwohl served as a photographer in Viet Nam with the 34th Engineer BN. and as a photographer with the 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg. He is currently a Creative Director of a New York advertising agency. He is also an artist and was represented at the VAP Pentagon Exhibition in July.
by Ford Sypher
We were the green eyes
With black rifles
That moved so silently
Through the night
You would not hear us
Until the breach
You would not hear us
Until we reached
To pull off your sheets
And rip you from your sleep
Our world was the night
We were gone before the dawn
Before the light
We took Crowes
Counted Feathers
And Chargers alike
Left bodies
But made sure the kids
Had glow-stix to play with at night
The women would cry
The men no different
The small children amazed
Trembled indifferent?
Their eyes the most piercing
Knowing our crimes
And soon recognizing in time
That it was we
The “Dirty Unit”
That had taken their Fathers
Their Brothers
And all in their prime
Our trips ran together
One place than another
The missions the same
Dispatch him
Then his brother
Some day we’ll come home
Our bodies old and broken
Our youth long gone
Our stories not to be spoken
Ford Sypher is a former Army Ranger Team Leader with the 3/75 RGR RGT. While serving Ford deployed five times in support of the Global War on Terror, with three deployments to Iraq and two to Afghanistan, from 2006-2010. Ford’s passion is poetry and learning how to better express emotion through the arts.
by Rod Merkley
As a Soldier and a veteran I find myself drawn to the historic sights of the wars of the past. To me, it is important that we honor, remember, and respect the warriors that came before us and through these visits I have been motivated to do a little bit more with my life. One such visit was to the WWII cemeteries in Luxembourg.
by William Adler
(2004 Deployment to Iraq)
The familiar, garments
of our separation.
This ritual repeated-
Pain is wrapped
in our comfortable moments.
The moments we share surface
in separation
Revisit our corrupted ideas
of legacy and meaning.
Deeply held
black-clad dreams
haunt our future again
Our separateness, is the real currency,
and the mark of history on our hearts.
We will put on the garments
of our separation.
Familiar and loathed.
There in our parting
A hope
A renewal of joy
When we will be together
Again.
I’m minutes- closer than I was.
This moment gone by- closer still.
William Adler is originally from Marshfield, Massachusetts. He chose a career of soldiering after college graduation but someday hopes to return to the Northeast to teach. He currently serves on active duty in Fort Irwin, California. He has served in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and most recently, Afghanistan.
by Jason McDowell
In U.S. Army Basic Training, Sundays are generally the best days of the week. There’s usually minimal training. There’s actually some downtime, which can be used for writing letters or napping. Assuming nobody had screwed up in the last day or two, recruits are allowed to use the pay phones in the afternoon. But on Sunday mornings, the enlistees are faced with a choice. They can go to church, or they can stay at the barracks and clean.
O-Dark-Thirty