Sandra, who is in one of my poetry groups wrote this. I can't explain what an impact it had on me at a gut level. Sometimes I think that damn war crippled my whole generation, one way or another. Anyway, with her permission, here's her story:
They went because they always said they'd go. Every spring, for the last thirty years, he'd take that damned list out of his pocket and read the names, again; tell those stories, again. As if he'd forgotten them over the winter. No, he never told the stories in winter. But as soon as the roads ran with March melt, he'd carefully unfold that paper, smooth out the creases, and read those names. And it was always worth a week long bender, in the beginning, at least, for the first ten, or fifteen years, or so. Even after he hit bottom, after he sobered up, once and for all, he'd still bring out the unopened bottles of Johnny Walker, and line them up on the kitchen table, seven in all, one for every man lost. Then, he'd hold each of those bottles in his big, calloused hands, and chain smoke a pack of cigarettes, and tell those stories. Again.
1. Andy had a week until he was going home. He served his time: two years, seven months, twenty three days, when he got careless. Fell asleep when he shouldn't have, and never woke up. They were really quiet, you know, like ghosts through the jungle. You'd never hear them coming. Shit. You rarely saw them, either, but you had to keep your eyes open. You had to stay awake. Andy just got careless, and tired. No, he never heard them coming. They were real quiet, you know?
2. Bill went down with Joe. Best friends since grade school, they
covered each other's backs for the eighteen months, two weeks and
thirty days they were there. They went down, fighting, Bill and Joe.
That's the way it should be. Make the bastards take it from you. Make
them pay for it.
3. Edgar was named for the poet. Kept a journal in his pocket, and
read the damned thing out loud whenever he had the chance, and was
stoned enough. Yes, they creeped us all out good, all those tales he
wrote, but he said it was his good luck charm, said he was going to
be famous, someday, and all of us, as well. He fancied himself a
writer, Edgar, did. He said he'd put us in his stories and we'd live
forever. We found that blood stained book walking patrol two weeks
after he died. We should have sent it home, though no one wanted to
touch it. No, his mom wouldn't have wanted it, anyway, the pages
torn, mud and blood stained as it was, so we buried it right there,
right where it had fallen out of Edgar's pocket. Hell, nobody lives
forever, anyway, luck or no luck, at least, not Edgar: one year,
eight months, three days.
4. George walked into a mine field and lost both legs. We dragged him out of there and watched him die. Some say he walked in there intentionally, some say he was just confused, but either way he was a
good friend for that first year, five months, twelve days. There wasn't one of us wouldn't have walked in there with him, if he'd asked us to. Some of us wish we had. A body bag wasn't the worst way to go home.
5. Joe was a real quiet sort of guy, until you got him drunk. It was best to give him a wide berth, then. We heard he went down fighting, Found two of them dead next to him, and Bill, everyone in pieces. It was a real mess, they said, sorting through arms and legs, though they were almost sure they sent the right pieces home. Not that anyone would've looked to be sure. They were closed caskets, every one of those funerals, photos on the top, you know-high school graduation, or football photos, most likely. If you go home in a body bag, there's usually not much left to look at.
6. John replaced Edgar, and didn't last out the week. The kid was scared shitless, most of the short time he was there. He cried himself to sleep and then awake, again, day and night. Everyone knew he'd never last, and he didn't. His screams woke the entire platoon the night he died, and every night for the next thirty years, but you couldn't hold it against him. He was just a kid. He shouldn't have been there at all. Jesus, he'd never even been laid. Six days, eight hours and twenty-three minutes, it wasn't the record, but damned near.
7. Michael replaced George, or more to the point, Mike took his place. He tried really hard to be friendly, too, but no one was in the mood. We weren't, usually, until after the first six months. It was always a long six months. He almost made it, too. It was close enough to count. Five months, twenty-seven days. Yes, we were getting ready to like him, he tried so hard. Truth be told, some of us liked him, already. I liked him, plenty, myself, I guess, but he was the last one.
So, they went, at last, because she promised they would. April warm, the sun glinting off polished, black granite, she just stood there and watched the cloud reflections, watched strangers' reflections and her own reflection. All those names so perfectly carved, so, very, very perfect. They walked, and walked, and never tried to find those names, not once looking to read what was written. And as they walked, she ran her hand the entire length of that wall, wanting some sharp edge, a chip or crack, just some small imperfection to tear against the skin of her hand in a token blood letting, but it was too smooth, too perfect, and she came away without so much as a scratch.
She never looked back. She followed the length of the wall and
then left him behind, with seven unopened bottles of Johnny Walker,
and that damned list taped to the top of the blue box that was all
that was left of him, now. And no one tried to stop her. Can you
imagine such a macabre sacrifice, left at the base of any other great
American memorial, without someone raising a question, or at least an
eyebrow? There was not one: "Excuse me, ma'am, but you seem to have
forgotten your dead husband." Not one. Ashes to ashes, she whispered, as she turned, and walked away.
His name wasn't there, though it should have been, and yes, there were worse ways of coming home, than in a body bag. In the end there wasn't much left of him, either. Technically, the lung cancer killed him, of course, but she knew it was those memories that ate him alive. And this damned party they threw, and never invited him. All his buddies, eternally stoned, while he fought every day of his life to remain clean and sober, and still remember.
Son and brother, husband and father, favorite uncle, best friend, he was just another soldier, finally making it home. No, his perfect name wasn't carved in black granite, though it should have been: Thomas, thirty-three years, eleven months, twenty-six days, five hours, seven minutes.
UP AGAINST THE WALL
Reflections
rock yesterday's
bottled grief,
fall in line,
reassigned as broken glass
up against the wall;
Black granite
offers no token
bloodletting,
nor one scratched
finger carving ash from stone;
Have a drink on me.