Author's Note: This poem was published in the 2014 issue of Shades, the Columbus Alternative High School magazine.
Crouched in the mud,
Dirt in our mouth and
eyes,
We would talk about our
lives before the war.
One was a young father,
one was a teacher,
One was a teenager
barely nineteen,
His ache for his
parents still sore.
We would talk about the
girls we had been with,
The books we had read,
The classes we had
taken at school.
The teacher was
educated,
The father was quiet,
The teenager as pale as
a ghoul.
As we fought bloody
battles
And watched brave men
fall,
Many supported the
idea.
One that fighting the
war
Was truly a lost cause
Against the juggernaut
called North Korea.
Clutching our guns close to our chests,
We knew it would keep us
safe
And protected.
It would save us from
harm,
From the boogeyman of
war,
Who was always ready to
claim those infected.
He would take them
away,
In his dark, cold
fingers,
He would take away our
comrades and friends.
He would never let go,
He was always stalking,
Ready to snatch us from
right around the bend.
So we would talk about
things,
Trying to keep our
minds off of
The horrors of the
terrible place we were in.
We would talk about
anything,
Love, loss, friendship
And trying to save
ourselves from sin.
One time we sat,
Crouched in our
familiar positions
And we spoke about the
feeling of death.
About the level of pain
we would feel,
About what would happen
after
We would die and take
our last breath.
The teacher said
nothing would happen,
There would be no
bright light
Or great, awe-inspiring
ascension.
The father said you
would either go up
To the kingdom of
Heaven
Or go down to the deep
dark dimension.
The teenager had said,
He was wasn’t quite
sure
What would happen when
you keel over and expire.
He questioned the need
of a God
Or a Satan,
What if the Bible was
simply a liar?
Now this is just me
talking,
He had said over the
rain,
The raindrops clinging
to his brow.
But what if death is
just an empty void
Of darkness, of
nothingness,
Ready to swallow us
when allowed?
The four of sat there
quietly then,
Thinking of
What the teenager had
said.
Could it be true?
Could we fall into
darkness
Once we passed away and
were dead?
Hold on I said then,
And everyone got silent
I was ready to finally
clear the air.
They all looked at me
then,
The teacher, the
father,
The teenager with rain
in his hair.
Before I die I said
then,
Looking at everyone’s
face
I want to live my life
to the full extent.
I want to get married,
Raise a couple of
children,
Go to barbecues and pay
the rent.
I truly don’t care
What death is like now,
It is far away from us
here.
We’re going to survive
this war
Go back to our loved
ones,
Sit down at home and
have a tall beer.
The others agreed then
That what I had said
About death had been
the best one.
That death was a
chapter
Of our life’s book
That we would try and
forever shun.
The rest of that night,
The four of us sat in
the cold
And made lists of
“before I die”.
The ball games we would
see,
The children we would
have,
The expensive
televisions we would have to buy.
That rainy night was
the last time
The four of us soldiers
Would ever be seen
together.
We would never sit as
old men
And talk about the war,
Getting comfy in
recliners of leather.
The teacher would die at
The Battle of Kham Duc
The young father
outside of My Khe of an illness.
The teenager would get
blown up
By a mine in ‘68
His body would lay in
the ground then with a stillness.
Now only I remain
Of the group of young
men
Who called themselves
the Surplus Four.
I married my sweetheart,
I had two lovely kids,
But I now sit, knocking
loudly on death’s door.
Vietnam may have
claimed
The lives of my
friends,
The boogeyman may have
taken his prey.
But I know that
wherever they are,
They are safe and
sound,
Their souls are no
longer astray.
I know when I die,
I will go up and away
To my own personal
heavenly plane.
I know that I’ll go
right back
To that cold, rainy
night
And see my fellow
soldiers again.
