In my small hometown today, there will be flags on every veteran’s grave in the cemetery, and a reception by the American Legion Auxiliary. All the veterans will be honored, but not all of their stories will be told.
One of the Vietnam veterans buried there came back addicted and damaged. A short time after he came back, he died by his own hand while playing Russian roulette. He’s buried next to his parents, who died long after him.
Another Vietnam vet was a successful farmer who had to be admitted to psychiatric care every so often because he was so haunted by his experience in a far away jungle. He was a good man, but it’s a hell of a long way from pheasant and deer hunting on the prairie to carrying a M-16 in the jungle. He died younger than he should have, from exposure to Agent Orange. His widow lives in the nearest big town.
One of the World War II vets buried in the cemetery was a close family friend. He would only tell the story of how scared he was during his service after a few drinks. He had his helmet shot off his head by a Japanese soldier, but he was lucky: he only had a little crease on his head to show for his Purple Heart.
We have a corrupt press and pundit class who treat war as both entertainment and a mark of seriousness. Serious, savvy politicians, in their view, know we have to send kids to war in order to show that we’re a serious country. They were cheerleaders for the Iraq War. They are fools, and their contempt for the people who live in this little town is in no way more obvious than in their desire to turn them into cannon fodder.
I’ve never voted in a primary for a politician who voted for the Iraq War. To me, that act was immediately disqualifying. The kids in this town deserve to have fun, find love and enjoy life. They don’t need to go to war, to be damaged or die, for no good reason. They deserve better than that.
Less said the better.
The bill unpaid, the dead letter.
No roses at the end
Of Smith, my friend.
Last words don't matter,
And there are none to flatter.
Words will not fill the post
Of Smith, the ghost.
For Smith, our brother,
only son of a loving mother,
The ocean lifted, stirred,
Leaving no word.
