|
He
sits staring into the jungle that
has become his home
Darkness
his companion, the stars his only
light
He
sits cold, alone
His
comfort, the letter he clutches in
his hand throughout the night
Warrior,
Soldier or Hero call him what you
may
Young,
just a boy in a mans body, growed
tall
Only
eight months to go, then he no
longer need stay
His
thoughts turn to family and
friends back in the world, but a
girl most of all
His
aspirations, stay alive another
day, go on R and R someplace
it’s warm
The
morning light finds him wrapped in
his poncho, chilled to the bone
When
asked he came to this jungle, but
thinks, it’s not my war
And
the nights here seem as cold as
the winters back home
Breakfast,
three cans of c-rations, carried
in an old wool sock
Ham
and lima Beans, he’ll mix up a
little powered coca mix
Heat
it over a chunk of C-4, then share
a little with the medic Doc
He
smiles to himself, live pretty
good out here after you learn the
tricks
He
feels before he hears the whop of
the chopper blades coming near
Morning
resupply, water, ammo, c-rations
and perhaps a letter from home
No!
A lift of ten choppers ( life
savers ) hit the LZ, he shivers
but not from fear
Sargent
Black yells, saddle up, hit that
lift or you’ll walk back to base
alone
Change
of orders, three days rest before
the next mission starts
Base
camp a place with a bed, showers
and the mail that to the field
never came
The
girl, back in the world though, is
the closest thing to his heart
Mail
call, he stands and listens for
his name
He
takes his letters and two small
packages, and returns to his tent
Each
man asks but a moment of privacy
to read their words from home
For
a moment then they can believe,
when asked to go to this jungle,
they never went
As
he reads he is surrounded by
friends and family in the world,
he knows he’s not alone
The
letter’s first to open and then
the packages
Mom’s
package first, he’ll save the
best for last
Cookies
and a birthday cupcake wrapped in
a happy birthday sack
Now
the package from the girl back in
the world, the one to open slow
not fast
Her
writing on the address reminds him
of her hair
Long
flowing and the ends, just the
flip of a curl
He
opens the box and closes his eyes,
the smell, it’s her she’s
standing there
He
reaches in with eyes still closed,
it’s soft, it’s her, he’s
back in the world
With
eyes still closed he lifts this
softness and presses her against
his face
He
looks and finds a sweater, no more
cold nights in this jungle land
What
could have been more thoughtful
that a sweater sent to this
forgotten place
A
Warrior sits holding Love to his
face and wipes a tear away with
the back of his hand
|
I
am ever so grateful to James Smith
who served in Vietnam for writing this poem. I had told
Jim that for Christmas 1969, I
sent my fiancé, Jim, a
sweater and I believed it was a
stupid thing to do as it
surely was too hot in Vietnam for
sweaters. Jim assured me that it
was not a stupid thing and
sent this poem. Thank you Jim -
for helping me understand...
|
Graphic
of a Soldier in Vietnam
© James Smith
Music:
Green Green Grass of Home
© by J. Curly Putman; originally performed by Tom Jones
Color Scroll Bar Script Courtesy of:
|