11/11/84

Their faces were a little clearer on this wretched day

They're always there, but today they

            seemed to take on a clearer ghost image

Whose image? you say

Why all those people I killed,

            that's who

How many? you think

Hundreds, my reply, and not all VietNamese

Their images are still there

They were soldiers fighting for their homes

            and they could also fight back and

            die with honor,

If there is such a thing in war

It's the Americans I killed that

            haunt me on this wretched day

They do not condemn me,

No pointing with outstreched, bony

            dead index finger

Their faces just drift passed my eyes

            that I can not close

Army Drill Sgt. '68, '69

I fought the VietNamese in '67

I killed Americans in '68,'69

No, I didn't fire the shot that took their lives,

Or plant the booby trap

            that rendered them dismembered,

Or detonate the unexploded bombs

            dropped by our own planes

But I didn't tell them to go home, either,

When they stood before me

            in ranks of ten, four deep

The young, the confused the lied-to

And they stood there over and over

            and over far too many times

I trained 1200 young men to die

My medic friends say "It's all right, Steve

            Time to move on"

But they tried to save lives,

And many they did

My truck driver friend says, "Steve

            it's okay, No use looking back"

But then he just hauled bombs to

            the waiting planes

And their faces are still in me eyes,

Ranks of ten, hundreds deep

I will join them someday, I don't

            know when

Or what can I say?

I was only following orders?

I thought I could help keep you alive?

Maybe I will be blind when I'm

            finally among them,

And they will let me rest with them,

            and comfort my sorrow

And never again will I see

            their faces on this cursed, wretched day,

November, 11th any year

Veterans Day.