Two moving combat poems

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I found and linked to a poem about World War II combat in Normandy. It is Carentan O Carentan. I have not reproduced it here because I believe it is copyrighted.

A father of a member of the West Point Class of 2004 sent me the poem below.

It is astonishingly wise about the reality and feelings men have in combat.

 WAR

By: Robbie Seidel
Grade 5

                                                                         Emmitsburg Elementary School

                                                                The sound of the chopper, the feel of the land

I left my home as a boy, but now I’m a man.
Forced to grow up in the killing and hate
We tallied our kill on an old wooden slate.
We march through the jungles in the heat and the rain
Keep up our morale it’s always the same.
They tell us “Gung Ho boys lets do it or die”
I wish I could just hold my head and cry.
I miss my home, my family and friends
But I must buck up now for my pain’s not at an end.
I volunteered myself for the old USA
Gave it all I’ve got to be proud one day.
I’m proud all right as I lay on this hill
Amongst the dead and the dying I am still.
I have no more worries nor grief nor pain
As I leave this world a proud U.S. Marine.
If I knew then what I now tell;
Would I have still come into this hell?
It’s not my problem. It’s not my concern.
They send me home in the big green bird,
Not until they send my family the word.
A letter that read,  “You should be proud!”
Oh, if I knew then what I know now.
_________________________
Dedicated in memory of:
Marine PFC Charles R. Pittinger

                                                                            Killed in Action Nov. 17, 1969

Quang Nam, South Vietnam
_________________________

                                                        And to all those who fought and died in the Vietnam War

There is more to the story of Robbie Seidel.

Dear Jack,

 

I stumbled across your website by chance. I find your articles to be a very interesting read. I want to thank you for your service. My oldest son graduated from West Point in the Class of 2004. Sadly, he was killed in action on May 18, 2006 by a roadside bomb during combat operations in Baghdad. His name was 1LT Robert A. Seidel, III. I wanted to share with you a poem that he had written in the 5th Grade at Emmitsburg Elementary School as a Memorial Day writing assignment. He was only ten years old when he wrote this poem.

 

Sincerely,

 

Bob Seidel, Jr.

The one point that I felt in Vietnam that is not in either the Carentan or the Sound of the Chopper poem—Robbie Seidel would not have any way of knowing about it at age 10—is the ineptitude and careerism behind many combat deaths. For example, somewhere in the neighborhood of 15% to 30% of combat deaths are friendly fire, accidents, or deliberate friendly fire. Many, perhaps most, of the others stem from negligent national strategy and/or tactics, unneccessary risks, and so on.

Here is another poem that captures my feelings about the continuing sacrifice of American lives in the far too vaguely defined and muddled execution of the so-called “War on Terror.” It is by Dyan Thomas and is about his aged father dying. But with a couple of word changes, it applies equally to the young men and women who dutifully put themselves in harm’s way “for the country,” but who are, in my opinion, far too sanguine about the careerist politicians and brass superiors whom they are trusting with their lives. So much is given up when one of these young soldiers dies. So little has been gained in Iraq and Afghanistan and in my Vietnam. It’s not right.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

One more pertinent quote from literature.

In the Bible, when Christ was being crucified, he said,

Forgive them father for they know not what they do.

When I see West Point cadets or young soldiers or marines, I am filled with sadness and foreboding and I think,

Protect them father for they know not what they have volunteered for.