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Visions of Warriors, 5th of July 2017
Overheard in the Eye Clinic
Veterans Hospital, White River
Junction
Three
today, with attentive companions
The
first came in with a demonstrative blond
Like a
wife, maybe too young, as old as I, a daughter?
”I’m going
to the bathroom, don’t do anything,” she commanded.
He
remained mute, nodding, his mind
Like
his one eye, behind a patch, elsewhere
Away
from her loud pecking voice
Upon
returning she snatched
The
newspaper from his hands
Glares
at the headlines and bellows
“That
Trump is just out looking for a fight!”
A bit
later handsome white haired man is wheeled in
Wearing
shorts, sporting a baseball hat
The
same color as his smooth sun-tanned skin
He
begins chatting with this nursemaid, a lovely lady,
Raven hair,
pulled back in a neat tail
Reminding
him, teasing him gently, about his service
Joking,
“That was the First World War?”
He
laughs, says “No, they are all gone now.”
His
story unfolds in their chatter
18
years old sent off to Belgium, then Germany, on the front line
Defeat
soon follows
A
visit, 100 miles from Berlin, the Camp
The
concentration camp, bodies piled up
“You
don’t know what I’ve seen.”
His
voice hushes, an audible tremble, unveiling a dark secret,
“There
piles of bodies, and living skeletons, women, little children, shriveled men.”
He
hung his head, all were quiet . . .
The
nurse asks if he misses New York
He
tells her tales of civilian life, a policeman
On the
horse patrol in Manhattan
He
takes his vacations in February
With
his ski-loving wife, to Stowe
now
his retirement home
Another
man is wheeled in,
He is
smaller than the tanned veteran
His
skin marble white, as are his polo shirt
His
shorts, ironed air-force blue
His
legs linen white, almost the color of
His
white sporty shoes
his
daughter says
He too
was in the Great War, in the Pacific
Flying
in scientists to assess the effects
biological,
and chemical, the bounty
Of
flattened Hiroshima
But he
is silent, wearing dark eyeglasses
as she describes his life
ascertaining
that both solders
are
91, both Leo
Born
in August
The
man with the patch, we find is 92
A
veteran of Korea, the blonde daughter tells us
“And
that’s where is is all going to start again,
That
crazy war. Daddy, your ready to go back?”
She brays
the room, again
Momentarily
Goes
Quiet.
She
slides in front of the two in wheelchairs
perches on a bench
Directly
between the two, says to the tanned tall man
“did
you fight Hitler’s soldiers?”
Incredulity
and challenge in her voice
oblivious
to the stories he’s told
obscured
from her ears
Tho’
she’d been sitting on the side
Much
nearer than I, across the room
Listening
as if to a play on stage
He
repeated his tale, “18, Belgium, Berlin . . . concentration camps.”
“Did
you know Hitler was Jewish?” she belts out accusingly
“I
heard that too.” The nurse confirms.
A med
tech comes, calls the name of the Horse soldier
He is
rolled out, down the hall
Moments
later, another calls the Korean one-eyed vet
Daughter
commandeers steering him, by arm, down the hall
The
silent Airman, perks up, laughs
Announces
to the room, talking to himself
“It
was beginning to sound like the barroom at the VFW.”
◊
Months
earlier
In the
same room
I
listened to two other vets
from the conscripted war of my era
the
one on the right, dressed in sporty clothes
bearing
the sunshine health of one who has
spent
hours on the green
taking
the lead in the conversation
he
ascertains their brotherhood in
the Tet offensive
The
other vet, two seats away
After
initial contact
kept his head down
As if
studying the floor
Anything
below the level of eyes
He
wears well-worn clothes, like him
Deprived
of sleep, wakeful, worrisome
His
skin colored by closed doors
From
florescent overheads, and dim barrooms
The
successful man, begins his tale
A
radar tech, enclosed upon an isle
Identifying,
directing the bombing mission
upon
enemy lines
and
incoming from over there
his
fear the natives on the island would
his
fortification find
the
other man, looks up briefly
and
says “I know I was on the line,
on the
river, soaked in sweat and mud
bombs raining down on us.”
In his
voice gravel, the terror still there
We
could feel it in the room
The
mud, the green explosive land
The
water soaking, the smell of Sulphur and of blood
Gritted
in his voice
He
cast his eyes back down and listened
The
enclosed soldier
Went
on, defining danger from afar
In the
living room of war
But
having heard the combat voice
The
visions burst our ears
In this
room we know
This embattled
soldier
Relives
combat daemons each day
Hell
is Manmade here on earth
A
heroic death the godly lie
of
happy-ever-after daze
the
plot the master weaves
it is
he who has the power upon this earth
his
name in history to lie
7/5-11/2017
The
warrior who has been in battle knows where Jesus lies: there ain’t no land of
glory.
InEternal Flame Stained Glass
by J.M.Frase-White 1997 Private Collection
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