Night in Blue*
At seven thousand feet and looking back, running lights
blacked out under the wings and America waiting,
a year of my life disappears at midnight,
the sky a deep viridian, the houselights below
small as match heads burned down to embers.Has this year made me a better lover?
Will I understand something of hardship,
of loss, will a lover sense this
in my kiss or touch? What do I know
of redemption or sacrifice, what will I have
to say of the dead—that it was worth it,
that any of it made sense?
I have no words to speak of war.
I never dug the graves in Talafar.
I never held the mother crying in Ramadi.
I never lifted my friend’s body
when they carried him home.I have only the shadows under the leaves
to take with me, the quiet of the desert,
the low fog of Balad, orange groves
with ice forming on the rinds of fruit.
I have a woman crying in my ear
late at night when the stars go dim
moonlight and sand as a resonance
of the dust of bones, and nothing more.*Turner, Brian. "Night in Blue," in Here Bullet. Farmington, Maine: Alice James Books, 2005. Pg. 64
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Night In Blue
Brian Turner sums up a year in war.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Dehumanization
The military trains soldiers to look upon the enemy as less than human. Something that is less than human is easy to kill. In war I participation in and observed other soldiers speak in and act in dehumanizing ways. As my wartime experience went on, the destructive nature of my attitude brought me shame. When I observed other speaking and acting in ways that dehumanized people I was repulsed.
Dehumanization is not something that is limited to war. Elements in our society promote dehumanization in a number of arenas. This allows us to kill "easily" in arenas from war to the death penalty to abortion. On a significant level, the American way is expressed in the words, "If you can't deal with it, kill it." Jennifer Fulwiler recognized a pattern of dehumanization in herself and in society. Her article, "A Sexual Revolution," in the magazine"America" speaks passionately and reasonably about why she chose to convert from a stance that supported abortion to a stance that embraces the unborn child.
Dehumanization is not something that is limited to war. Elements in our society promote dehumanization in a number of arenas. This allows us to kill "easily" in arenas from war to the death penalty to abortion. On a significant level, the American way is expressed in the words, "If you can't deal with it, kill it." Jennifer Fulwiler recognized a pattern of dehumanization in herself and in society. Her article, "A Sexual Revolution," in the magazine"America" speaks passionately and reasonably about why she chose to convert from a stance that supported abortion to a stance that embraces the unborn child.
A Sexual Revolution
Back in my pro-choice days, I read that in certain ancient societies it was common for parents to abandon unwanted newborns, leaving them to die of exposure. I found these stories to be as perplexing as they were horrifying. How could this happen? I could never understand how entire cultures could buy into something so obviously terrible, how something that modern society understands to be an unthinkable evil could be widely accepted among large groups of people.
Because of my deep...
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Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sadiq
Brian Turner, an American Iraq war veteran, in his book of poems, Here, Bullet, writes concerning Iraq and the war there. His poetry is sensitive to Americans fighting the war, their enemies, the Iraqi people, and the Iraqi society and culture. In “Sadiq” (Friend) he speaks of what is the central reality of war.
Sadiq *
It is a condition of wisdom in the archer to be patient
because when the arrow leaves the bow, it returns no more.
--Sa’di
It should make you shake and sweat,
nightmare you, strand you in a desert
of irrevocable desolation, the consequences
seared into the vein, no matter what adrenaline
feeds the muscle its courage, no matter
what crackling pain and anger
you carry in your fists, my friend,
it should break your heart to kill.
* Turner, Brian. “Sadiq.” Here, Bullet. Farmington, Maine: Alice James Books, 2005.
Sadiq *
It is a condition of wisdom in the archer to be patient
because when the arrow leaves the bow, it returns no more.
--Sa’di
It should make you shake and sweat,
nightmare you, strand you in a desert
of irrevocable desolation, the consequences
seared into the vein, no matter what adrenaline
feeds the muscle its courage, no matter
what crackling pain and anger
you carry in your fists, my friend,
it should break your heart to kill.
* Turner, Brian. “Sadiq.” Here, Bullet. Farmington, Maine: Alice James Books, 2005.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Other Shots
There are numerous ways to become a casualty in war.
Other Shots
He was from the 1st Cavalry Division. On his first patrol with that division, one of his squad members hit a trip wire connected to the firing mechanism of a booby-trapped white phosphorous grenade or artillery round. The explosion spread white phospherous over every member of the squad. The blast and the burning chemical decimated the squad. White phosphorous; also know as WP and Willie Peter, burned at a low temperature. When particles of WP hit a person, they burn through the skin into the body. The burning is impossible to put out unless the part of the body affects is submerged in water. In effect, white phosphorous burned a person who it hits exteriorly and interiorly until the burning is stopped. In many cases, those whom white phosphorous hit die. This young soldier was the only person to survive that booby-trap attack. Badly wounded, the 1st Cavalry sent him to Okinawa for recovery. After his recovery, the Army sent him back to Vietnam and to our company.
It was a normal day in the Delta in an area that contained banana trees and other taller trees that shaded us from the sky. The terrain was flat and grassy. In our company size operation, we had walked in formation spread out from the men around us about ten meters apart. Spreading out minimizes the number of wounded and killed in case someone tripped a booby-trapped. Grenades have a “kill radius,” measured from the point of explosion, of five meters. Their wounding radius is fifteen meters. Artillery rounds have a vastly wider kill and casualty radius. We traveled through this area all morning until near eleven o’clock when, from our front, two shot rang out. They were incoming and we hit the ground. The VC put those rounds over our heads or in our midst to slow us down. We must have come up on and surprised an enemy unit that did not want to engage us.
After the shots, our commander sent orders for us to break while a squad size patrol went out to recon the area from where the shots came. Sitting on damp ground we got out our C Rations and started eating lunch. I had a B-3 C Ration unit and began eating my canned ham and eggs chopped meal. It was a meal that I liked, but one that almost everyone else hated. While sitting and eating, another shot rang out. The sound was not too far behind me. I couldn’t see what was happening; however, after the shot I heard men speaking urgently and loudly and saw someone run to the area where the sound came from. In a short while, word filtered up to my platoon that the new guy from the 1st Cav had “accidentally” shot himself in the leg while cleaning his weapon. Eyewitnesses said it was a strange almost surreal scene: the guy raised his M-16, pressed it into his thigh, and pulled the trigger. In a few minutes, a dust off, that is a medevac helicopter came in and took the man away. We didn't see him again. I hope that that wound kept him out of the war. I know of another man who during my tour “accidentally” wounded himself. I have no condemnation for those whom, in the devastating war-time environment, take such an action.
Other Shots
He was from the 1st Cavalry Division. On his first patrol with that division, one of his squad members hit a trip wire connected to the firing mechanism of a booby-trapped white phosphorous grenade or artillery round. The explosion spread white phospherous over every member of the squad. The blast and the burning chemical decimated the squad. White phosphorous; also know as WP and Willie Peter, burned at a low temperature. When particles of WP hit a person, they burn through the skin into the body. The burning is impossible to put out unless the part of the body affects is submerged in water. In effect, white phosphorous burned a person who it hits exteriorly and interiorly until the burning is stopped. In many cases, those whom white phosphorous hit die. This young soldier was the only person to survive that booby-trap attack. Badly wounded, the 1st Cavalry sent him to Okinawa for recovery. After his recovery, the Army sent him back to Vietnam and to our company.
It was a normal day in the Delta in an area that contained banana trees and other taller trees that shaded us from the sky. The terrain was flat and grassy. In our company size operation, we had walked in formation spread out from the men around us about ten meters apart. Spreading out minimizes the number of wounded and killed in case someone tripped a booby-trapped. Grenades have a “kill radius,” measured from the point of explosion, of five meters. Their wounding radius is fifteen meters. Artillery rounds have a vastly wider kill and casualty radius. We traveled through this area all morning until near eleven o’clock when, from our front, two shot rang out. They were incoming and we hit the ground. The VC put those rounds over our heads or in our midst to slow us down. We must have come up on and surprised an enemy unit that did not want to engage us.
After the shots, our commander sent orders for us to break while a squad size patrol went out to recon the area from where the shots came. Sitting on damp ground we got out our C Rations and started eating lunch. I had a B-3 C Ration unit and began eating my canned ham and eggs chopped meal. It was a meal that I liked, but one that almost everyone else hated. While sitting and eating, another shot rang out. The sound was not too far behind me. I couldn’t see what was happening; however, after the shot I heard men speaking urgently and loudly and saw someone run to the area where the sound came from. In a short while, word filtered up to my platoon that the new guy from the 1st Cav had “accidentally” shot himself in the leg while cleaning his weapon. Eyewitnesses said it was a strange almost surreal scene: the guy raised his M-16, pressed it into his thigh, and pulled the trigger. In a few minutes, a dust off, that is a medevac helicopter came in and took the man away. We didn't see him again. I hope that that wound kept him out of the war. I know of another man who during my tour “accidentally” wounded himself. I have no condemnation for those whom, in the devastating war-time environment, take such an action.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Disillusionment--A Scene From My Memoir
After Basic Training
Traditionally, after basic training, the Army gives soldiers a thirty-day leave. For us, this happen in the midst of an airline strike. By this time, I knew that when I returned to Fort Riley I would be in an infantry unit. Several of us, enough to nearly fill a bus, took a Greyhound from Kansas, home to California. It was a long trip going through the hot weather of the western states. During the trip, we passed around liquor and I imbibed. I considered drinking a masculine activity and I wanted others to think of me as a very masculine soldier. Moreover, I wanted to bolster my own sense of masculinity. One morning I took a drink of vodka, for the rest of the trip I had a stomachache. So much for my young image of masculinity.
There was, on the bus, a young soldier, a buck sergeant wearing a three stripe chevron on the shoulder of his dress khaki uniform shirt. He wore a 1st Cavalry Division insignia on the other shoulder. The 1st Cav was already in Vietnam. In ’65 and ’66 they had seen heavy combat and had taken many casualties, particularly in the Ia Drang Valley. The Ia Drang was the first major battle between Viet Cong and American forces. This young sergeant wore a Combat Infantrymen’s Badge (CIB) on his chest along with a few ribbons. The CIB, in particular, denoted that he had seen infantry combat. The Combat Infantryman’s Badge is a silver badge containing, in the foreground, a three inch long by half inch wide blue rectangular box that itself contains a silver rifle. The background is a two inch long silver wreath that protrudes about three-eighth inch above and below the blue box. The wreath is placed eqidistant from each end of the blue box. This quiet young man with his CIB rode along with us new “green” soldiers. I, along with others, was somewhat in awe of this young serious looking and unsmiling sergeant. Three of us new untested infantry soldiers approached this man and attempted to ask him about his experience in Vietnam. He said something about the year in Vietnam being a year without sleep. Then he cut us short looking at us with a sad yet angry countenance. In an almost off hand, but severe voice he said, “you can have that fuckin’ war!” He said nothing more then turned and walked back to his seat.
That encounter left me feeling somewhat afraid and confused. I grew up with John Wayne WWII movies, other war movies, and the television series Victory at Sea that glorified the American infantry soldier in both life and death. The media definitely did not portray our WWII soldiers with the dour countenance and attitude of this soldier. TV, movies, and the culture itself portrayed them as heroes. I was shocked at his obviously angry demeanor and attitude toward the war. This incident readied me for the disillusionment with the war in Vietnam that I developed early on during my one-year tour.
Traditionally, after basic training, the Army gives soldiers a thirty-day leave. For us, this happen in the midst of an airline strike. By this time, I knew that when I returned to Fort Riley I would be in an infantry unit. Several of us, enough to nearly fill a bus, took a Greyhound from Kansas, home to California. It was a long trip going through the hot weather of the western states. During the trip, we passed around liquor and I imbibed. I considered drinking a masculine activity and I wanted others to think of me as a very masculine soldier. Moreover, I wanted to bolster my own sense of masculinity. One morning I took a drink of vodka, for the rest of the trip I had a stomachache. So much for my young image of masculinity.
There was, on the bus, a young soldier, a buck sergeant wearing a three stripe chevron on the shoulder of his dress khaki uniform shirt. He wore a 1st Cavalry Division insignia on the other shoulder. The 1st Cav was already in Vietnam. In ’65 and ’66 they had seen heavy combat and had taken many casualties, particularly in the Ia Drang Valley. The Ia Drang was the first major battle between Viet Cong and American forces. This young sergeant wore a Combat Infantrymen’s Badge (CIB) on his chest along with a few ribbons. The CIB, in particular, denoted that he had seen infantry combat. The Combat Infantryman’s Badge is a silver badge containing, in the foreground, a three inch long by half inch wide blue rectangular box that itself contains a silver rifle. The background is a two inch long silver wreath that protrudes about three-eighth inch above and below the blue box. The wreath is placed eqidistant from each end of the blue box. This quiet young man with his CIB rode along with us new “green” soldiers. I, along with others, was somewhat in awe of this young serious looking and unsmiling sergeant. Three of us new untested infantry soldiers approached this man and attempted to ask him about his experience in Vietnam. He said something about the year in Vietnam being a year without sleep. Then he cut us short looking at us with a sad yet angry countenance. In an almost off hand, but severe voice he said, “you can have that fuckin’ war!” He said nothing more then turned and walked back to his seat.
That encounter left me feeling somewhat afraid and confused. I grew up with John Wayne WWII movies, other war movies, and the television series Victory at Sea that glorified the American infantry soldier in both life and death. The media definitely did not portray our WWII soldiers with the dour countenance and attitude of this soldier. TV, movies, and the culture itself portrayed them as heroes. I was shocked at his obviously angry demeanor and attitude toward the war. This incident readied me for the disillusionment with the war in Vietnam that I developed early on during my one-year tour.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
First Memoir Entry
The memoir/autobiography class that I was a part of ended in the middle of May. During the class, I began a memoir about my year in Vietnam. It is about half done. Below is the opening scene that depicts a pivotal incident in my year of war.
Prayer
It was late April or early May of 1967 and late at night in the hold of the USS Benewah, a barracks ship and our base of operation anchored near the South Vietnam city of Vung Tau. Our infantry company had just begun patrolling the Rung Sat, a tidal swamp and “free fire zone” a few kilometers outside Vung Tau in the Mekong Delta. Anyone we came upon in this area was enemy. I had been with the men of B Company in the second squad of the second platoon since August of ’66. We had trained together at Fort Riley, Kansas and we sailed to Vietnam together arriving in that country on 28 January 1967. I was close to a number of men in my fifty-man platoon. I felt particularly close to the twelve men in my squad. We knew each other.
Our platoon had not seen major combat nor had it any combat related injuries since arriving in country. However, we knew that the enemy was near because our sister units had taken some casualties, mainly from booby-traps. We had stumbled on one or two VC base camps during first few operations in the Rung Sat. Moreover, we had taken rifle fire during at least one incident while walking through one of these camps. The day before our unit had returned from an uneventful three-day mission. It was somewhere near 0200 as I lay awake in my top bunk. I hadn’t been able to sleep. At 0500, we would move out on Navy landing crafts that would land us for another three-day patrol.
This night, lying awake I prayed in the semi-darkness of the Benewah’s hold. Colored lights, red or yellow, set at the exits of our below board holds cast an eerie and faint yet distinct glow over the whole barracks area. I looked around at the sea of upper bunks and the men in those bunks who each lay over the bunks of two other men. My parents had brought my two brothers and I up as Roman Catholic and from early on I had taken my faith and spiritual life serious. Prayer continued to be important part of my life before and after being drafted into the Army. This night my prayer became especially important. Anxious, I lay on my bunk talking to God. At first, I don’t remember that I asked for anything specific; however, it is easy to conceive that I prayed for my safety and that of the people in my squad and platoon. By then a prayer for a successful mission killing the enemy was definitely not part of my existence. However, as I lay there I drifted into a deeper and more tranquil prayer that, in a short time, became extremely intense and emotion filled. At that point, I had received a gift of prayer; my prayer focused away from myself. It focused on the lives of my companions. In an intensity that took my focus off of my life and drew my focus to my friends I begged God to give me the courage to risk my life even to the point of dying for the other men in my unit. My focus converged on my squad; however, later in my tour God answered my prayer in an expanded manner. God’s focus, I would come to find, is not so parochial. I continued to pray that night and quiet reigned as I rested until our platoon sergeant rousted us and we finished packing our gear. After putting on our gear that included an M-16 assault rifle, three grenades, ammunition, food, water, a protective flack vest, and possibly a can of machine gun ammo or a radio, and various other things that we needed, we walked up the stairs that led to the main deck. Reaching the deck, we walked down a gangplank to a pontoon floated dock and boarded a landing craft that would transport our platoon into the Rung Sat swamp and another three days of patrolling. We were off to another mission that we realized could mean contact with our then enemy. We felt a certain excitement and dread that goes along with the threat of wounding and death.
Prayer
It was late April or early May of 1967 and late at night in the hold of the USS Benewah, a barracks ship and our base of operation anchored near the South Vietnam city of Vung Tau. Our infantry company had just begun patrolling the Rung Sat, a tidal swamp and “free fire zone” a few kilometers outside Vung Tau in the Mekong Delta. Anyone we came upon in this area was enemy. I had been with the men of B Company in the second squad of the second platoon since August of ’66. We had trained together at Fort Riley, Kansas and we sailed to Vietnam together arriving in that country on 28 January 1967. I was close to a number of men in my fifty-man platoon. I felt particularly close to the twelve men in my squad. We knew each other.
Our platoon had not seen major combat nor had it any combat related injuries since arriving in country. However, we knew that the enemy was near because our sister units had taken some casualties, mainly from booby-traps. We had stumbled on one or two VC base camps during first few operations in the Rung Sat. Moreover, we had taken rifle fire during at least one incident while walking through one of these camps. The day before our unit had returned from an uneventful three-day mission. It was somewhere near 0200 as I lay awake in my top bunk. I hadn’t been able to sleep. At 0500, we would move out on Navy landing crafts that would land us for another three-day patrol.
This night, lying awake I prayed in the semi-darkness of the Benewah’s hold. Colored lights, red or yellow, set at the exits of our below board holds cast an eerie and faint yet distinct glow over the whole barracks area. I looked around at the sea of upper bunks and the men in those bunks who each lay over the bunks of two other men. My parents had brought my two brothers and I up as Roman Catholic and from early on I had taken my faith and spiritual life serious. Prayer continued to be important part of my life before and after being drafted into the Army. This night my prayer became especially important. Anxious, I lay on my bunk talking to God. At first, I don’t remember that I asked for anything specific; however, it is easy to conceive that I prayed for my safety and that of the people in my squad and platoon. By then a prayer for a successful mission killing the enemy was definitely not part of my existence. However, as I lay there I drifted into a deeper and more tranquil prayer that, in a short time, became extremely intense and emotion filled. At that point, I had received a gift of prayer; my prayer focused away from myself. It focused on the lives of my companions. In an intensity that took my focus off of my life and drew my focus to my friends I begged God to give me the courage to risk my life even to the point of dying for the other men in my unit. My focus converged on my squad; however, later in my tour God answered my prayer in an expanded manner. God’s focus, I would come to find, is not so parochial. I continued to pray that night and quiet reigned as I rested until our platoon sergeant rousted us and we finished packing our gear. After putting on our gear that included an M-16 assault rifle, three grenades, ammunition, food, water, a protective flack vest, and possibly a can of machine gun ammo or a radio, and various other things that we needed, we walked up the stairs that led to the main deck. Reaching the deck, we walked down a gangplank to a pontoon floated dock and boarded a landing craft that would transport our platoon into the Rung Sat swamp and another three days of patrolling. We were off to another mission that we realized could mean contact with our then enemy. We felt a certain excitement and dread that goes along with the threat of wounding and death.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I Train Boxers
I have known Fernando for six or seven years and, along with his manager, Joe Burke, have trained him for over two years. At times, I irritated Fernando while I work with him and offer corrections to improve his boxing form and technique. Almost daily, he tells me, with a smile, that he “hates” me. However, he still listens to what I say. Fernando and I are friends. He will have his sixth professional fight in Mississippi late in July.
I Train Boxers,
Professional and Amateur
A few weeks ago, I called
Fernando, our pro.
Can’t remember what prompted
The call.
He answered in his
speedy Spanish tinged English.
The words I heard sounded like
“I love you.”
Immediately, I responded,
“I love you too.” Then,
self-consciously, I asked,
“did you say something
about love?
He said, “no.”
I heard that clearly and
quickly changed the subject.
But my words still remain.
I Train Boxers,
Professional and Amateur
A few weeks ago, I called
Fernando, our pro.
Can’t remember what prompted
The call.
He answered in his
speedy Spanish tinged English.
The words I heard sounded like
“I love you.”
Immediately, I responded,
“I love you too.” Then,
self-consciously, I asked,
“did you say something
about love?
He said, “no.”
I heard that clearly and
quickly changed the subject.
But my words still remain.
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