At the gym this morning a Vietnam veteran and I made some small talk. I mentioned that today was Veteran's Day, 11-11-11. He was wounded as shown by the logo on his pickup's license plate, and any attempt I've made in the past to try to get him to give some details of his war experience never got far. Today he said it was his wife's birthday. That was what was on his mind. On the "Morning Joe Show" this morning two Medal of Honor veterans talked about others. The panel all said they can never get any Medal of Honor winner to talk about his actions that earned the medal. They all say they were just doing their job.
A few years ago I wrote this and was reminded of it this morning.
-We Were Drinking Beer in Herb's-
We were drinking beer in Herb's
when Walter said, "Your dad should
have kicked your ass more often
just as far as I'm concerned."
Walt was a World War II vet,
a gunner in a bomber
who told of watching bullets
bounce off the armored belly
of German jets he shot at.
He flew thirty-some missions.
How could I argue with him?
Just maybe he knew something.
Then I looked beside Walter
to the next man. He'd once said
a man could have walked ashore
on floating soldier's bodies
killed while attempting to land
on gory foreign beaches.
He rarely spoke, yet his eyes
looked at me saying, "He's right."
The next in line at the bar,
a D-Day paratrooper,
spoke cheerfully, masking facts
of his war - hearing the screams
of Germans after he threw
explosives in their concrete
bunker. His box of medals
sat unsung, collecting dust.
In spite of his easy laugh
his eyes pierced this guy's know-it-
all attitude to say, "You
have a lot to learn yet, boy."
Though my spirit had weakened
from this beating I'd taken,
I could still stand at the bar.
My eyes settled on the vet
who hosted a metal plate
in his head for which he'd paid
a piece of his skull and brain.
The crew of his tank had stopped
to cook coffee. A sniper
traded his bullet for the flesh
of this man, neutralizing
forever his reasoning.
Those unfocusing eyes watched
me through a clouded beer glass -
was I friend or enemy,
the one who had wounded him?
I had entered this man's world
thinking I was an equal,
but this cadre proved harsh worlds
apart from mine existed.
That ragged line extended
further down the long counter,
and men's faces became blurred.
Each had his private story
and bore sore wounds in body
or mind. Retreat from their hell
was the better course for me.
Years have passed and none remain
to share these stories and shame
me into humility.
It is this I remember.
copyright, LBueling
A few years ago I wrote this and was reminded of it this morning.
-We Were Drinking Beer in Herb's-
We were drinking beer in Herb's
when Walter said, "Your dad should
have kicked your ass more often
just as far as I'm concerned."
Walt was a World War II vet,
a gunner in a bomber
who told of watching bullets
bounce off the armored belly
of German jets he shot at.
He flew thirty-some missions.
How could I argue with him?
Just maybe he knew something.
Then I looked beside Walter
to the next man. He'd once said
a man could have walked ashore
on floating soldier's bodies
killed while attempting to land
on gory foreign beaches.
He rarely spoke, yet his eyes
looked at me saying, "He's right."
The next in line at the bar,
a D-Day paratrooper,
spoke cheerfully, masking facts
of his war - hearing the screams
of Germans after he threw
explosives in their concrete
bunker. His box of medals
sat unsung, collecting dust.
In spite of his easy laugh
his eyes pierced this guy's know-it-
all attitude to say, "You
have a lot to learn yet, boy."
Though my spirit had weakened
from this beating I'd taken,
I could still stand at the bar.
My eyes settled on the vet
who hosted a metal plate
in his head for which he'd paid
a piece of his skull and brain.
The crew of his tank had stopped
to cook coffee. A sniper
traded his bullet for the flesh
of this man, neutralizing
forever his reasoning.
Those unfocusing eyes watched
me through a clouded beer glass -
was I friend or enemy,
the one who had wounded him?
I had entered this man's world
thinking I was an equal,
but this cadre proved harsh worlds
apart from mine existed.
That ragged line extended
further down the long counter,
and men's faces became blurred.
Each had his private story
and bore sore wounds in body
or mind. Retreat from their hell
was the better course for me.
Years have passed and none remain
to share these stories and shame
me into humility.
It is this I remember.
copyright, LBueling
