Day, the Eleventh

Follow Thy Drum

To be clear: My World War 2 veteran father actively disliked and avoided this day.

I attempted on a few Nov. 11th occasions to call and thank him for his service, but the gesture just upset him.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he’d say. “I wouldn’t have been there if I had my way, so what are you thanking me for?”

And so, two unpublished stories for you today about veterans. Not about pride or honor or patriotism (though you’ll find those traits if you look closely enough). Rather, two short studies about what it means to go to war and then to come back and try to be human again. These are two stories about soldier poets.

Thank a vet today if you know one, or don’t. But at least be mindful that the greatest level of respect we can show toward our veterans – as it always has been – is to not make more of them.

The Soldier Poet: Part 1

My dad hated his time in the service. He was drafted into occupied Japan right after the war ended. His job, as he told it, was to keep the engines running and peel the potatoes.

He had adventures for sure, and even when his memory was the most fragile, he was able to speak with clarity about his time overseas – the day he decided to “borrow” a military Jeep and attempt to drive up Mt. Fuji is a story that comes to mind. Bet he peeled a lot of potatoes after that one.

But he always encouraged me to stay away, and always tried to distance himself from the fact that he was a vet. So, on this day, I'll respect that. No doubt he'd be embarrassed to even see that picture of him above, with his army buds. He’s the one standing. His opinion was always clear – the best way to honor veterans was to not have war.

Instead, I'll offer a poem. His poem, technically. When he passed away, I discovered that he kept a notebook in his pocket full of scribbled joke reminders for whenever he was going to parties or events, like a crib sheet of joke lines that would help him remember the joke. He used this notebook as ice breakers.

So, I took some of those notes – verbatim – and assembled them into a surrealist poem. I think he'd be pleased. I read this poem for the first time at an event in Buffalo just a few days after his passing.

THE ELEPHANT IN THE GARDEN WITH CABBAGES

By Joe Szczesny

The elephant in the garden with cabbages

The Pope meets the nuns in the garden

The butcher backs into the slicer

The Rabbi has a leaking roof

The armless man rings the bell

The blind man is trying to find the dog's head

The man with a beard like Jesus asks you for your car

Jesus is watching the parrot

Ministers who spike the watermelon

The soldier writes about a polar bear

The lady gives CPR to a manhole

$6 from my brother in Cleveland

My brother drives like that

Get rid of the cow

And the chickens,

And my brother

Dumb blonde in the convertible

Dumb fishermen on the ice rink

Dumb passing pig

The dumb dog is too lazy to move

The six-year-old girl is crying,

her little sister doesn't realize it hurts.

Later, the little sister cries as well

because now she understands.

---

The Soldier Poet: Part 2

Going to the top of New England with a shuttle full of veterans is the closest to stepping into a Time Machine that I’m ever likely to experience. There I am, the shuttle captain, along with a full load of cranky, gruff marines, army, air force and navy guys and they are acting like kids.

One, Ray, has lived in the North Country for nearly thirty years, but has never been to the top of Mt. Washington. He sits behind the driver, his face two inches from the window, and as we break out of tree line and the glorious Wildcats come into view, he yells, “Are you kidding me, Holy Shit!” Over and over again, unable to better express the sight of the Northern Presidentials, the waves of mist rolling over the summit cone, the paper mill stacks of Berlin on the horizon, Ray just repeats, “Holy Shit, Holy Shit,” until it becomes a mantra of awe, a child-like expression of wonder. I think back to my first time up here. This place – a geology of rock and scrub – changes people. You never forget your first time.

I’d been invited to a National Alliance on Mental Health (NAMI) event at the base of Mt. Washington where more than 150 North Country veterans and their families have gathered to network, share information, hear about services available to them, and most importantly, share their collective stories with each other. The day ended with six shuttles ferrying a big portion of the attendees up Mt. Washington to watch the sunset from 6,288 feet.

They are a mixed bunch, these guys, and they are mostly guys. I speak to an 85-year-old Korean War Marine Vet who explains that he doesn’t understand all this talk about sharing and PTSD. “You don’t do that, you just keep it to yourself,” he explains to me as we stand in the hot dog line. “All those guys who brag about their time in the service, tell you war stories, most likely those guys are the ones making it all up.”

I think of my uncle, a gunner in a A-16, who never spoke to anyone about his service. But I have pictures of his plane on the ground after a mission, all shot to hell, broken and terrifying.

This silence, of course, is exactly the sort of thing that NAMI is trying to address in vets, a reluctance to reach out, to show weakness, to ask for help. That’s a silence that leads to family stress, social disconnection and sometimes suicide.

A Purple Heart Vietnam vet named Dave sums this up nicely in a speech to the group when he asks, “My challenge to you is, do you have anybody in your life today that’s got your back, that’s got your six?”

Meanwhile, near the top as the sun breaks through a patch of clouds and an explosion of shimmering orange light rains down on the Great Gulf lighting up the ridge like it’s on fire, Ray has the crew in stitches with his exclamations. He’s a big man, and even though he has a hard time walking now and his eyes are perpetually moist, the lines in his face and the scars on his arms and legs speak of a hard-lived life.

This goes on for quite a while, until Ray stops talking and seems to look beyond the clouds, past the rows of mountains, like he’s removed himself from our group for a moment, like he’s remembering… things. Then, quietly, almost to himself, he says, “If I were to say a prayer up here, it would get to Heaven first.”

Mt. Washington has made this old veteran a poet.