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11/11/84
By Steven Hassna
[Printer-Friendly Version] Their faces were a little clearer on this wretched
day.
They're always there, but today they
seemed to take on a clearer ghost image.
Whose image? you say.
Why, all those people I killed,
that's who.
How many? you think.
Hundreds, my reply, and not all Vietnamese.
Their images are still there.
They were soldiers fighting for their homes,
and they could also fight back and
die with honor.
If there is such a thing in war.
It's the Americans I killed that
haunt me on this wretched day.
They do not condemn me,
No pointing with outstretched, bony,
death, index finger.
Their faces just drift past my eyes
that I cannot close.
Army drill sergeant, '68, '69.
I fought the Vietnamese in '67.
I killed Americans in '68 and '69.
No, I didn't fire the shots that took their lives,
Or plant the booby traps
that rendered them dismembered,
Or detonate the unexploded bombs
dropped by our own planes.
But I didn't tell them to go home, either,
When they stood before me
in ranks of ten, four deep,
The young, the confused, the lied-to.
And they stood there over and over
and over, far too many times.
I trained 1200 young men to die.
My medic friends say "It's all right, Steve,
time to move on."
But then, they just tried to save lives,
And many they did.
My truck-driver friend says, "Steve,
it's okay. No use looking back."
But then, he just hauled bombs to
the waiting planes.
And their faces are still in my eyes,
Ranks of ten, hundreds deep.
I will join them someday,
I don't know when.
And what can I say?
I was only following orders?
I thought I could help keep you alive?
Maybe I will be blind when I'm
finally among them,
And they will let me rest with them,
And comfort my sorrow.
And never again will I ever see
their faces on this cursed, wretched day,
November 11th, any year,
Veterans' day.
Steve Hassna is the West Coast Coordinator of VVAW. He lives in Northern California and is a poet and author. He served in the 101st Airborne in Vietnam and was a drill instructor.
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