A Poem

2005-01-23T21:40:00.000-08:00

This is in response to the country's realization that when a soldier comes home from war they are never the same as they were when they left.When I came home from Viet Nam many years ago, no one would admit that PTSD exsisted. Now they do. To those coming home, Welcome Home and that is meant with all sincerity. But when the dreams come and the rage and fear for no reason raises in you understand what it is and know that you are among one of the most unique and elite fraternity in this country, The Combat proven Warrior. There are many of us out here. Seek us out when you need to just sit with someone that truly understands.

A Welcome Home From Iraq From One Combat Vet to Another

Welcome home from the fields of war,
You withstood the worst in shot and shell.
You watched your brethren die in your arms as well.
Welcome home my comrade;
Now starts your time in hell.

- Marcus Nevacoff, Veteran
11-Bravo Light Weapons Infantry, Vietnam 1968-71

Old Soldiers

2005-01-23T21:26:00.000-08:00

It’s a chilly morning here on Anastasia Island.The Beach is almost frosty this morning. For the first time in many months I feel chilled as I start out on my morning bike ride. It will warm a bit as the sun rises a few more degrees in the October Sky. But now the air is fresh and crisp and wiping away the sleep from my eyes in a way that is vaguely remembered. A time and a place many years ago.With my thoughts almost immediately beginning to drift away as I have 70’s rock & roll blasting away in my ears. I notice my neighbor standing in front of his house on this brisk morning before beginning his days labors.Today, I stop. For it has been a while since we have taken the time to more than nod in each others direction as we pass during the day.We are not close friends or even neighbors in the traditional sense of the word. Ours is a kinship of battle. We are brothers from another time and another reality. Never before in our lives had we laid eyes on each other until about eighteen months ago. It was not the small Purple Hearts on our license plates that identified us to each other. We recognized the weariness in each others eyes. We are Old Soldiers. Warrior survivors of one of Dante’s Circles of Hell called Vietnam.“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother;”It is fitting that we talk this day. For now I know what this nagging familiarity of the morning is. I am back on a hilltop graveyard where I had slept for the night. For only the graves were on dry ground in a land of rice paddies. Very rarely one had to sleep in the mud once we learned this trick. People had been dying in that country for many years. It is strangely peaceful sleeping among the dead.Shivering in the morning cold. A blanket around our shoulders. A tin canteen cup, or a cup made from favorite C-Ration can grasped in filthy, cracked, and callused hands. A liquid posing as coffee heated by a pinch of plastic explosive, held closely for its warmth. Staring into a fire of C-Ration boxes. Thinking thoughts about a life thousands of miles away that we wished we were living instead of the one that we were living in the bone chilling cold of the morning jungle.Now we stand together staring down into the ground as though the flames of that long extinguished fire were in front of us. Talking of things only Old Soldiers speak of.Of our lives and loves lost and found. Of our utter amazement that we are still alive after all of these years; Our shame for being alive while so many of our brethren lie cold in the ground; The things that only warriors say to each other when they are in the autumn of their lives.We notice the small things so quickly. Old habits never die. The new growth on a near dead oak tree which has seemed to have found new life over the summer months. Of the flash of color and movement which is a woodpecker hopping from branch to branch looking for good things for breakfast among the dead limbs.We talk of our homes we have built for those we love and cherish. But most noticeably we speak in tones of weariness.A neighbor approached finishing his morning constitutional. The same age as us, but not one of us. He was never the warrior. He has no knowledge of that which we warriors carry in our minds, our souls, and our hearts. “And Gentlemen in England now a-bedShall think themselves accursed they were not hereAnd hold their manhoods cheap while any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”We stand as two bearded incantations of the Norse God Heindall guardian of the Rainbow Bridge to Asgard, who according to legend needed less sleep than a bird, could see a hundred leagues, and could hear grass growing in the meadows and wool growing on the sheep. Protecting our private Asgard where we dwell, until we are finally called forth into our own Valhalla to join our brethren. Now our beards are gray. Our middles thick. Our flowing hair sparse. But our demeanors are ones of assurance. Our visages quiet and thoughtful. We use few words with each other. We speak to each other of mundane things for the most part. But occasionally we speak of our confusion and frustration at growing old and infirm. We mention, but do not speak of comrades no longer with us. But those words are few, for we share the same fear and prayer. That soon we will join our warrior brethren once again. We have the eyes that have seen too much. With ears that have heard too many screams of pain caused and suffered by ourselves; Eyes that one gets only when the screams of pain are of your own suffering and of your own making. We have tired eyes. We have the eyes of predators. We have the eyes that hold a wisdom only those who have faced their own deaths many times over ever acquire. We have sad eyes. So, on this fine chilly October morning, we stand in the shadows under a tree. Looking down into a fire that is not there. Our hands clasping for the comforting memory of that tin cup and coffee. Remembering the warmth and security of that cup in our hands. Now, again, dreaming of a life thousands of miles away. Missing the life that we had been living in the bone chilling morning in the tropics. Wishing we were back in the Jungle as warriors once again. For there we had the one thing that we can not have now, but would pay any price to have. Our youth. “He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say tomorrow is Saint Crispian; Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars.And say,“ these wounds I had on Crispin’s day.” - ” Henry V”, Act 4 Scene 3, Wm. Shakespeare It‘s a chilly morning here on Anastasia Island.

A WARRIORS VIEW

A Poem

Old Soldiers