W A R
My experience as a 2nd Lieutenant commander of a combat support platoon
in Qui Nhon, Vietnam from April of 1967 through April of 1968--where my
unit, consisting of mostly high school kids from urban ghettos and small
farm towns in America's hinterland, operated a depot complex and convoyed
supplies throughout the Central Highlands--is perhaps the chief focus,
weaving in and out of much of my poetics.
Paul Fussell was a 20 year old ROTC/OCS 2nd Lieutenant
leading an infantry platoon in the waning days of the defeat of Nazi Germany.
He has spent much of his esteemed academic career researching and writing
about combat and its long-term horrors. In his recently published memoir,
DOING
BATTLE, he quotes Audie Murphy as saying, "I don't think they ever
do," when the most decorated soldier in American history was queried about
how soldiers survive battle (page183).
Fussell has this to say about the continuing impact
of his experience of combat on his life (pages 262-263):
"Ever since my return
to civilian life in 1946 I'd been recalling my experiences in war
and considering their relation to everything else I knew. Did service as
a young infantry officer in whatever time and place bring some special
knowledge of humanity in relation to oneself? Was my war unique or quite
commonplace and hardly worth special notice?"
I, too, have pondered, or have recalled, or have
been reminded of my experience of war virtually every day since I returned
from Vietnam on April 4, 1968, when many urban areas of America were burning,
their citizens rioting in rage, about four hours after Martin Luther King
had been assassinated.
Herein follow five of my poems which deal with my
experience of war as a theme:
Begun, as much of my work does, as a journal entry
on a flight between New York's La Guardia Airport and Buffalo, NY where
I was attending a conference, this rather longish poem summarizes my lifetime
involvement with war.
This poem depicts a rainy memorial day service I
happened upon while walking with my then six-year old son in our hometown
on the holiday.
Driving home from my office late one beautiful Spring
afternoon, this poem describes a scene I witnessed through which I was
ambushed again by that which never completely is gone far enough from the
jungles of my mind.
Partially a love poem, this stark memory saved my
sanity for awhile in the middle of another stark memory.
Precious, heartfelt, deeply moving events happen
anywhere, even in the horror of man's incredible inhumanity to himself
(opps, to be completely politically correct, here in the 90s, perhaps it
would be more appropriate for me to say zirself!"
Or, get ye quickly back to de Main
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