Real War Stories, Retold in Poetry by James A. Tweedie

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War Paths

in honor of veterans I have known through the
retelling of their stories.

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“Any Man’s Death Diminishes Me”

Preface

“Be killed or killed! Be cursed or cursed!”
__A lose-lose battle cry.
For even if I kill him first
__a part of me will die.

And though I suffer through the bane
__and manage to survive,
I’ll spend whatever years remain
__pretending I’m alive.

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Harley’s Feet

A Veteran of the First World War

Back in the day we called them “mailmen,”
And now we call them “letter carriers,”
And most of them were men, it seems, back then,
Like Harley, who was chased by terriers
And St. Bernard’s in Warren, PA, where
He must have walked at least ten-thousand miles
Delivering the mail here and there
Along with idle chat and friendly smiles.

Like Harley, we knew all of them by name,
Acknowledged them with gifts on Boxing Day
Or Christmas Eve and thanked them just the same,
For whether winter skies were cold and gray
Or sweltering in August’s humid heat,
They made their daily rounds and handed us
A birthday card, a Valentine Day’s treat,
Or news that either cheered or saddened us.

They amputated one of Harley’s feet,
The day when diabetes turned it black,
For old age turns to sour what once was sweet,
And time moves ever onward, never back.
Before he died, I asked him what the high
Points of his life had been? “To sail to France
In the Great War. And when I didn’t die,”
He said, “I fell in love, and learned to dance!”

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Hans and the Dutch Resistance

as told to me in Australia, 1985

My wife and I were war-time saboteurs,
Assigned to blow up German transport trains.
My wife was caught, the dynamite was hers.
They shot her on the spot; blew out her brains.

I married for a second time and then
The two of us, through blood and sweat and tears,
Went back to bombing Nazi trains again
For three more bitter occupation years.

Post-war I was commissioned by the Queen
To first track down and then assassinate
A list of thirteen well-known men who’d been
Collaborators with the German state.

I killed them each in turn, the same for all.
I looked them straight into their traitor’s eye
And shot them through the heart. I watched them fall
And left them lying in the street to die.

The Queen gave me a medal, changed my name,
And sent me off ten thousand miles away.
What’s done is done, and who is there to blame?
The past, though past, remains with me today.

When nightmares take me back in time, I shake
As I relive each bomb and gun and knife.
And sometimes in the night I scream, and wake
To find that I am strangling my wife.

I’ve kept this to myself for forty years
And now I’ve told you all there is to tell.
There’s nothing left to do but face my fears
And claim the place reserved for me in hell.

I am a casualty of war, he said,
Who lingers on alive, though long-since dead.

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New Guinea – 1944

from a member of my family

The Japanese were slippery, New Guinea, hot and damp.
To gather intel, sometimes we would sneak into their camp,
The guards were silenced with a knife. It’s what we had to do.
We’d bring the camp commander back to tell us what he knew.
That’s just the way it was; we did our job and did it well.
We fought a war, and beyond that, there’s nothing much to tell.

MacArthur’s base was at Sentani. Through an open door
I saw him there, and met a friend who I had known before.
We shared a lunch and said, “Goodbye,” as he got on his plane.
I watched it stall and crash. He died. I can’t recall his name.
That’s just the way it was; we did our job and did it well.
We fought a war, and beyond that, there’s nothing much to tell.

I once was shot at by a sniper on a jungle track.
He missed but broke a tree branch that fell hard upon my back.
My shoulder hurt for weeks but I was lucky to survive.
No Purple Heart for me, I was just glad to be alive.
That’s just the way it was; we did our job and did it well.
We fought a war, and beyond that, there’s nothing much to tell.

I served with Army Intel in New Guinea and Japan.
And in between, the Philippines, and Cabanatuan.
The things I did and saw I thought were worth a second look.
Before I died, I took some time and tried to write a book.
The book was never finished. That’s the way it goes, oh well.
We fought a war, and beyond that, there’s nothing more to tell.

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Korean War Remains

a whispered story spoken to me from a grave
in the National Cemetery of the Pacific,
Punchbowl Crater, Oahu, Hawaii

You can’t escape the cold that chatters teeth
And stings, then numbs your fingertips and ears.
You squat on frost-hard dirt and shake beneath
A frozen sky as one dim star appears.

With trembling hands your father’s Zippo lights
Trioxin in a church-key hole-poked can
To heat a tin of pork and beans, tonight’s
C-ration feast—enough for just one man.

Your teenage, twice-kissed lips, your “mother’s face,”
And well-toned body shaped by the marines
Enjoy a cigarette—a final taste of grace
And breath before being blown to smithereens.

For in the morning, as you crest a name-
Less hill, a distant mortar shell will flash,
Then whistle, and in sudden, silent flame
Turn all you were and might have been to ash.

A folded flag. A hero’s ribboned pin.
Your grave, “Unknown.” As if you’d never been.

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Mekong Memory

adapted from experience shared by a friend who
is a Vietnam Veteran and member of the Patriot
Guard Riders

The mission seemed a waste of time
__Just cruising the Mekong.
The heat, humidity, and grime
__Seemed all god-awful wrong.

Our gunboat kept as far away
__From land both left and right
While hoping to get through the day
__Without a fire-fight.

My buddy, Phil, came up on deck.
__We stood there, side by side.
The bullet hit him in the neck.
__Without a word, he died.

We zipped him in a body bag
__And took him back to base.
They wrapped his casket in a flag
__And sang “Amazing Grace.”

Phil’s name’s now deeply carved into
__A polished granite wall
Alongside others that we knew
__Who once stood proud and tall.

The war’s long over, tears have dried,
__But can it be a crime
To wonder if the day Phil died
__Was just a waste of time?

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Letter from Iraq – Mosul 2004

correspondence from a friend in Iraq

Today, while on patrol, I saw a child
Emerging from a shadowed, hidden place.
As he approached, I paused, then stopped and smiled,
But doubt soon wiped the smile from my face.
For children have been used as human bombs
Who terrorists blow up as they draw near.
I raised my gun and kept as cool and calm
As possible while fighting back my fear.
The thought that I might kill him made me ill.
I took a chance and turned aside my gun.
He smiled, waved, and walked back down the hill.
He was, I think, the same age as my son.
To let him live was easy to decide.
But, on the other hand, I could have died.

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Deployment to Afghanistan

the story of a friend

I married just before I was deployed
To join the fight against the Taliban.
My best friend served as well and we enjoyed
The thought of going to Afghanistan.

One day the Humvee right in front of me
Flew in the air—my best friend was inside.
Its tires had tripped a massive IED
And I assumed my closest friend had died.

To my surprise, he lived. But something snapped
Inside my head that day, and as time passed
I became anxious, angered, haunted, trapped
By vivid flashbacks of that Humvee blast.

When I came home, I kicked our dog to death,
And smoked and drank more than I had before.
I verbally abused my wife, who held her breath
In fear that I might act out what I swore.

The Army offered counselling. It failed.
And, in the end, my frightened wife was forced
To move back home to Maine, where she unveiled
A plan she had for us to get divorced.

The Army said, “Be all that you can be.”
But what they gave me was PTSD.

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James A. Tweedie is a retired pastor living in Long Beach, Washington. He has written and published six novels, one collection of short stories, and three collections of poetry including Mostly Sonnets, all with Dunecrest Press. His poems have been published nationally and internationally in The Lyric, Poetry Salzburg (Austria) Review, California Quarterly, Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online, Better than Starbucks, Dwell Time, Light, Deronda Review, The Road Not Taken, Fevers of the Mind, Sparks of Calliope, Dancing Poetry, WestWard Quarterly, Society of Classical Poets, and The Chained Muse. He was honored with being chosen as the winner of the 2021 SCP International Poetry Competition.