NAM: A TRIBUTE
I know I'll go to Heaven
I know it oh so well.
I know I'll go to Heaven
I'll never go to Hell.
'Cuz I've been there and back,
I'll never go again.
I've done my time.
I've done my time.
I've been to Vietnam.
-song-
At Russel Beach, Da Nang, Defiant Measure,
Oklahoma Hills, Loc Ninh, Chu Lai,
the Mekong Delta, at Quan Loi, Quang Tri,
Hill 55, Red Beach and Cam Rahn Bay,
at other names we hold in memory,
as volunteers, draftees, reluctant veterans,
we flew away to fight a war,
bring peace, protect our nation, way of life.
We fought to save our world, but still
there is no peace. War is the State of Man.
A heavy hollow burden weighs upon
these years as dim shapes press through memory.
These echoes, faint, are still recalled of time
when all our innocence was ripped away
to leave a gaping sear of calloused flesh
scarred over now with years. But still the dull
pain throbs. For something stayed inside me when
I left the war, an anxious sense. I wake
at 3 a.m. and listen to the whispers
of the night. It always is at 3,
so something must have happened, something that
I've locked away and dare not find the key.
Perhaps it was a firefight or Viet Cong
whose smiles of the day attacked at night.
My sister said for months the nightmares came.
I'd wake up dazed and shouting names then lay
there sweating, half-awake, until I moaned
and turned my face back to the wall. I don't
remember any dreams. I never dream!
But still my wife says sometimes I will turn
and mumble out a name that I once knew.
Bill Frailey, Nick McCoy. One night the three
of us were in the bush on recon with
our radio and guns and any other
weapon we could carry with us from
our camp. The night was warm and dark with just
a sliver of a moon that we could hardly
see through all the trees. We moved in darkness,
silence, crouched beside the Ho Chi Minh
as NVA passed by in thousands moving
south. We held our breath. We did not dare
to speak. They passed in silence though the night.
Our only vision of them was a darker
silhouette of black. All through the night
we hid beside the trail until a break
in moving darkness let us fall away.
Still shaking we returned to camp. Because
he had not heard from us, our Captain thought
that we were surely dead, but we were not.
I have no need to justify myself,
defend myself to hypocrites, to those
who dare to celebrate our liberty,
but will not stand behind their words.
They wave their flags on Independence Day.
They strut about and puff their chests. Brave men
of words! who hid behind their wealth, who hid
behind their education, hid behind...........me.
When I returned to San Francisco, June
14th of 1969, the States
seemed so unreal. After Viet Nam,
I still cannot explain the feelings that I had,
the great excitement, joy, relief. I had
not heard that final shot. I had survived!
I'm not ashamed to say that when I came
down off that plane, I knelt upon the ground.
I did not kiss the dirt, I did not kiss
the oil, grease, and other litter blown across
the tarmac in the morning sun, I kissed
my home, my land, my country that I loved.
But even in that moment, even as
my world was right again, I felt the vicious
worm of guilt hatch twisting in my soul.
I can't explain the feeling that I had,
that in this joy the shadow of a worm
would gnaw away my happiness and leave
me empty with regret and shame. What right
had I to kneel there in the sun? What right
had I to catch the next flight to St. Paul
when friends of mine, the men who watched my back
as I watched theirs, were still in Nam. I tried
to shrug it off--- to say they were alright,
but I was young and couldn't understand
that even now, some thirty years gone by,
I hold a part of them within myself.
But on that morning as I raised myself
from off the tarmac there was only sun
and blue sky with a fresh breeze off the ocean
as I walked into the terminal.
I still can see her leaning on the rail
above the escalator holding up her sign
in big red letters: Soldiers! Welcome Home!
She waved her sign, she called to me, and I
was rising step-by-step to heaven. God!
oh God, I grinned! My head was dizzy at
the sight of her. Her hair was golden blond.
I thought it must feel just like sunshine only
softer, warmer to the touch. And when
I topped the escalator there I stood,
transfixed. She dropped the poster to her side
and leaned toward me; her ruby lips pursed for
a kiss. And when I bent to touch
her lips with mine, she spat into my face
and pushed me back. Her blue eyes seared my brain
with hate. Her lovely lips drew back into
a snarl as she screamed, "You Baby Killer!
Murderer!" and threw a bag of blood
against my uniform.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't say a word. Some M.P.'s grabbed
the girl and took her off. She screamed and swore
and struggled in their arms. In all the fire
fights I'd been in never did I freeze,
and even when I thought I'd surely die
I did my job, but now I could not move.
I stood there frozen, numb, until some buddies
took me by the arms into the john
to wash me off. I hold that all inside.
Until this time, I never told that story
to a soul, and now it seems as if
it happened yesterday. I guess the hardest
part of Viet Nam was coming home.
These memories I hold are buried deep.
Recalled from time, scarred over now with years.
We were the sacrifice essential to our time.
The gift we gave our country was to rip
away the glory mask of War, reveal
its grinning yellow teeth, its vacant eyes,
the smell, the breath, the maggot-stench of Death.
The thing that I remember most is fear.
You never knew when it would be your turn
to step into an ambush or to trip a mine.
My fear of injury was greater than
my fear of death. To lose an arm or leg
would carry home your injury for all
to see, but all of us are casualties.
We bear the scars of war---our memories.
We did our duty and came home to live,
to marry, raise our kids, and then----grow old.
And when we die, our stories fade away,
our memories are lost in photographs,
our deeds become a chronicle of time,
a footnote, or a line of history:
"And once there was a war in Viet Nam."
April, 2005
revised: 10/23/09
(Dedicated to T.D. and all who served in "Nam". This poem is based on interviews with Vietnam war veterans and dedicated to the men and women who served our country in a very controversial war. It was written for the opening of an art gallery in Appleton, WI featuring the artwork of Vietnam vets. Some of the information presented in the poem was gleaned from: Vietnam Experience: Stories of a Troubled Past, a collection of interviews gathered by students of D.C. Everest High School, Weston, Wisconsin.)
I know I'll go to Heaven
I know it oh so well.
I know I'll go to Heaven
I'll never go to Hell.
'Cuz I've been there and back,
I'll never go again.
I've done my time.
I've done my time.
I've been to Vietnam.
-song-
At Russel Beach, Da Nang, Defiant Measure,
Oklahoma Hills, Loc Ninh, Chu Lai,
the Mekong Delta, at Quan Loi, Quang Tri,
Hill 55, Red Beach and Cam Rahn Bay,
at other names we hold in memory,
as volunteers, draftees, reluctant veterans,
we flew away to fight a war,
bring peace, protect our nation, way of life.
We fought to save our world, but still
there is no peace. War is the State of Man.
A heavy hollow burden weighs upon
these years as dim shapes press through memory.
These echoes, faint, are still recalled of time
when all our innocence was ripped away
to leave a gaping sear of calloused flesh
scarred over now with years. But still the dull
pain throbs. For something stayed inside me when
I left the war, an anxious sense. I wake
at 3 a.m. and listen to the whispers
of the night. It always is at 3,
so something must have happened, something that
I've locked away and dare not find the key.
Perhaps it was a firefight or Viet Cong
whose smiles of the day attacked at night.
My sister said for months the nightmares came.
I'd wake up dazed and shouting names then lay
there sweating, half-awake, until I moaned
and turned my face back to the wall. I don't
remember any dreams. I never dream!
But still my wife says sometimes I will turn
and mumble out a name that I once knew.
Bill Frailey, Nick McCoy. One night the three
of us were in the bush on recon with
our radio and guns and any other
weapon we could carry with us from
our camp. The night was warm and dark with just
a sliver of a moon that we could hardly
see through all the trees. We moved in darkness,
silence, crouched beside the Ho Chi Minh
as NVA passed by in thousands moving
south. We held our breath. We did not dare
to speak. They passed in silence though the night.
Our only vision of them was a darker
silhouette of black. All through the night
we hid beside the trail until a break
in moving darkness let us fall away.
Still shaking we returned to camp. Because
he had not heard from us, our Captain thought
that we were surely dead, but we were not.
I have no need to justify myself,
defend myself to hypocrites, to those
who dare to celebrate our liberty,
but will not stand behind their words.
They wave their flags on Independence Day.
They strut about and puff their chests. Brave men
of words! who hid behind their wealth, who hid
behind their education, hid behind...........me.
When I returned to San Francisco, June
14th of 1969, the States
seemed so unreal. After Viet Nam,
I still cannot explain the feelings that I had,
the great excitement, joy, relief. I had
not heard that final shot. I had survived!
I'm not ashamed to say that when I came
down off that plane, I knelt upon the ground.
I did not kiss the dirt, I did not kiss
the oil, grease, and other litter blown across
the tarmac in the morning sun, I kissed
my home, my land, my country that I loved.
But even in that moment, even as
my world was right again, I felt the vicious
worm of guilt hatch twisting in my soul.
I can't explain the feeling that I had,
that in this joy the shadow of a worm
would gnaw away my happiness and leave
me empty with regret and shame. What right
had I to kneel there in the sun? What right
had I to catch the next flight to St. Paul
when friends of mine, the men who watched my back
as I watched theirs, were still in Nam. I tried
to shrug it off--- to say they were alright,
but I was young and couldn't understand
that even now, some thirty years gone by,
I hold a part of them within myself.
But on that morning as I raised myself
from off the tarmac there was only sun
and blue sky with a fresh breeze off the ocean
as I walked into the terminal.
I still can see her leaning on the rail
above the escalator holding up her sign
in big red letters: Soldiers! Welcome Home!
She waved her sign, she called to me, and I
was rising step-by-step to heaven. God!
oh God, I grinned! My head was dizzy at
the sight of her. Her hair was golden blond.
I thought it must feel just like sunshine only
softer, warmer to the touch. And when
I topped the escalator there I stood,
transfixed. She dropped the poster to her side
and leaned toward me; her ruby lips pursed for
a kiss. And when I bent to touch
her lips with mine, she spat into my face
and pushed me back. Her blue eyes seared my brain
with hate. Her lovely lips drew back into
a snarl as she screamed, "You Baby Killer!
Murderer!" and threw a bag of blood
against my uniform.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't say a word. Some M.P.'s grabbed
the girl and took her off. She screamed and swore
and struggled in their arms. In all the fire
fights I'd been in never did I freeze,
and even when I thought I'd surely die
I did my job, but now I could not move.
I stood there frozen, numb, until some buddies
took me by the arms into the john
to wash me off. I hold that all inside.
Until this time, I never told that story
to a soul, and now it seems as if
it happened yesterday. I guess the hardest
part of Viet Nam was coming home.
These memories I hold are buried deep.
Recalled from time, scarred over now with years.
We were the sacrifice essential to our time.
The gift we gave our country was to rip
away the glory mask of War, reveal
its grinning yellow teeth, its vacant eyes,
the smell, the breath, the maggot-stench of Death.
The thing that I remember most is fear.
You never knew when it would be your turn
to step into an ambush or to trip a mine.
My fear of injury was greater than
my fear of death. To lose an arm or leg
would carry home your injury for all
to see, but all of us are casualties.
We bear the scars of war---our memories.
We did our duty and came home to live,
to marry, raise our kids, and then----grow old.
And when we die, our stories fade away,
our memories are lost in photographs,
our deeds become a chronicle of time,
a footnote, or a line of history:
"And once there was a war in Viet Nam."
April, 2005
revised: 10/23/09
(Dedicated to T.D. and all who served in "Nam". This poem is based on interviews with Vietnam war veterans and dedicated to the men and women who served our country in a very controversial war. It was written for the opening of an art gallery in Appleton, WI featuring the artwork of Vietnam vets. Some of the information presented in the poem was gleaned from: Vietnam Experience: Stories of a Troubled Past, a collection of interviews gathered by students of D.C. Everest High School, Weston, Wisconsin.)