Confession
Paul E. O'Connell
Published by Paul E. O'Connell at
Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 Paul E. O'Connell
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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You come to confess your sins?"
"Yes
Father... I shot and killed a man."
Well, go on....................
Table of Contents
A Poem of Hope
The children
no longer ask
mother
why dad screams
in his
sleep.
They have grown,
have children of their own
who I hope will
never be
frightened in the night
by the screams of their
Dad
fighting with the past, fighting
for his life.
Back Before Then
Back
before
the frantic frenzy
the sun, glorified,
set
softly.
Dusk faded
into twilight.
The moon
shared the
sky
with the stars.
Tides crept upon
pearl white sand,
rested,
then slipped away
as leaves turned
and the geese
flew south.
Yes, my world once
revolved on its own
in peace, in time,
when
things were right
when everything was perfect.
A Saturday Night Out
“I’m game if you are.”
My friend, Jerome,
a few years older than my seventeen
topped
off the car’s tank
and off we went.
In the morning
I called my Mother collect
from the Empire State
Building.
She said, “Get! Home!! Now!!!”
“But Ma, I’m in New York City.”
“Now!!!”
Jerome and I got served,
threw up,
got lost in the
subway,
drank again,
puked
and passed out.
Twelve hours late,
I arrived home to find my clothes
in brown
paper bags
just inside the front door.
With nowhere to go,
one week later
I found myself standing
at
the position of attention
on the yellow footprints
on Parris
Island,
shivering, still hung over.
Eight months later,
my Mother kissed me good-bye,
as I left for
Vietnam.
New as Shiny Boots
"Brother. Do you think we’ll get into a firefight today?
"What
did you say?
Just wondering if we might get into a firefight.
Man, are you
crazy?
Huh?
Do you understand what happens in a firefight?
I think…
Think shit, fool. I’ll tell you what. Guys get
killed. Wasted. Dead forever. Do you understand. Forever!
The Enemy Base Camp
A few days after Christmas, high in the mountains, beneath a mosaic of greens, triple canopy thick, we came upon bamboo huts with thatched roofs, up on stilts, built along a beautiful mountain stream, fed by an underground spring. The ingenuity of those who had built such a camp held me in awe as my eyes followed the long lengths of bamboo split the long way, followed the flow of water within the carved out bamboo aqueducts which connected each hut with a constant supply of fresh running water.
Pigs, forty or more, miles from their natural habitat, roamed loose through the mountain camp. How and who had herded the pigs so far and so high into the mountains seeped into our brains.
The Kit Carson scout, a North Vietnamese defector, said we were in an enemy rest camp, large enough to sleep hundreds, and although the camp appeared empty, except for the pigs, he said, most likely, someone had been left behind.
A search of the huts exposed no one, but what was discovered, hanging inside most huts, were hand-crafted bird cages made from match-stick-thin slices of bamboo, held together by short lengths of tough, jungle vine. And yet there were no birds.
Caves were discovered; some natural, some tunneled, and our tunnel rats went to work.
Many caves had huge, oversized bamboo woven baskets filled to the
brim with tons of uncooked rice. One cave had hundreds and hundreds
of small cans, red in color, with Chinese writing imprinted upon
them. Inside the cans was the worst smelling fish ever smelt. Another
cave was filled with five hundred or more pairs of black pajamas and
Ho Chi Minh sandals, and another with well seasoned caldrons and a
few other metal pots. And the cave Tunnel Rat Dillon slithered into,
on his hand and knees, had life inside. When it was all over, after
the sunset, as we sipped hot instant coffee from our canteen cups,
Dillon said, “Things moved fast.”
Told how he heard water. A
drip of water. More water and then a sigh. Or someone catching their
breath. Then drops of water until the infrared tinted beam from his
hand-held light shined on two eyes, then two more, and the four eyes
were mesmerized like animals in the dark, poached in the night. As it
always seems, the world stopped, stared, then spun faster than ever,
and as the eyes shined on a rifle, ah, just out of reach, the
slightest distance between life and death, Dillon's raised forty-five
exploded in fire nearly shattering his eardrums. To us outside being
entertained by two monkeys swinging in the trees, the shots sounded
like explosions coming from deep inside a West Virginia coal mine.
Minutes later, with ropes tied around the dead ankles, marines pulled two bodies out into the faint light of day.
On a worn flat rock, a slab, not too far from the stream, was the body of a girl with her mid-section, intestines everywhere, blown wide apart, and a North Vietnamese Colonel, possibly her lover, shot straight between the eyes.
The pigs were corralled the next morning and murdered. Later in the day, from the safety of our own camp, we watched while we ate and sipped coffee, our jets, bomb what hell was left in the enemy base camp.
Closed Casket
Brown-gray cloud…
John!?!?!
Lifted…
Swallowed
before my eyes
like the mystical sleight of
some
sorcerer’s hand.
How?
Foolish of me to yell out your name. No mouth… No face… No brain… No!
Heart, legs, arms, gone
beyond all help.
Left behind in the morning heat,
mute, angry, marines
carried
in a green rubber poncho
a spine wet to touch.
I cried for you in the deaf world
As we carried only an
assumption.
It had to be you,
the only one missing.
Wind and dust
left with your remains,
in a silence
which has
never said,
good-bye.
Out to Dry
The first thing
I ever shot
looked no different
than a black
pajama top
hung out to dry
on my Mother's clothes
line
stretched between
a huge, half-dead oak
and the rear
porch
where she would lift
dripping wet laundry
from a large
aluminum
colander, water seeping,
and clothes pin the wash
to
the line.
Something like one of my Father's
red handkerchiefs,
a bandanna
maybe,
hung too.
A split second
after the trigger squeeze,
like the wind blew
and through
the rifle sight
and the bluish gray tint
of
gunpowder smoke,
there appeared three
more in black
wavering
in the breeze.
I remember sparrows startled
scattered just as if
my Mother had
shooed them away.
God forbid if they had
soiled the wash.
Then the line snapped
and the black pajamas
and red
bandanna
dropped and disappeared
into the ankle deep weed,
and
I knew my Mother
would be madder than hell
when she found her
laundry,
on the ground,
covered with blood.
Phu Nhan 3
While Smith and I
watched peasants
work the flooded
paddies
below our hill,
he took from his pack
a family
snapshot of his
brothers and sisters.
The picture struck me as
being
out of focus. The faces
seemed masked,
like they had
nylon stocking
tight over their face,
like bank robbers in
disguise,
but yet their hair
and clothing
and the fur of a
collie
at their feet
was a clear, sharp, image.
Off in the distance,
towards the west,
a column of
white
phosphorous smoke
filtered up through
the green mesh
of trees
from Phu Nhan 3,
a village often sympathetic
towards
the VC,
especially at night.
Overhead,
a prop-driven spotter plane
flew circles and lazy
eights
while it waited for the next
flight of supersonic
jets
to swoop down
upon the marked target.
Meanwhile,
atop of our hill,
Smith told me
as a child
he
and his brothers and sisters
had been trapped
inside their
burning house.
A real bad fire, he said.
The silence,
my
loss of words,
what could I say
as I handed back the
picture,
was broken by the scream
of a fighter with its nose
high,
a steep spiral climb,
an escape from the inferno,
a
deep red-orange ball of flame
an expanding glob of what I
understood
to be like gasoline,
thickened with airplane glue,
a
sticky mess,
all on fire,
known as Napalm.
And as the flames burnt out,
thick clouds,
black smoke
billowed
like an afternoon thunderhead
on a hot summer
day,
Smith told me how
they spent years in and out of
hospitals,
how they faced as a family
hundreds of plastic
surgeons.
He said he breathed through a hole,
indicated with
his finger,
ran it lightly over the scar
over his throat,
but
had an operation
so he could breathe like others,
through their
nose and mouth,
so he could be a marine,
so he could join the
fight
Again,
silence
broken by the next jet,
a nosedive through
heavy black smoke,
another shiny aluminum canister,
an end over
end free fall,
another ball of flame,
while up close,
Smith
points to his ear lobes,
lets me see how they end
in a
point like icicles,
told me the fire was so hot
his ears
actually dripped.
Another black cumulus cloud,
more smoke from Phu Nhan 3
rises
to the heavens
as Smith grew silent
after he told me
his
Mother and Father
died in the fire
trying to save their
children.
In irony, hours later,
Smith would lose his life,
in a cloud of
smoke
at Phu Nhan 3
Night Ambush
Revenge came in the faint glow of stars,
a fingernail slither of
moon
and the manmade light of distant flares
slowly burning
out.
Down low, in damp weed,
tall enough to hide an
elephant,
four tired, worn and hungry marines
hid alongside the
muddy village trail,
waited for the enemy,
who more than
likely, would not show.
There was this ungodly stench
of buffalo dung, each others
sweat
rotted cartridge belts,
mixed with the chemical smell
of
mosquito repellant smeared
on the back of their hands, their
wrists,
face, neck and ears tuned to the sounds of the
night.
sounds of mosquitoes in flight
biding their time as they
waited
for the invisible barrier to dissipate,
and squeaky
like, worn fan-belt sounding crickets,
ribbits from a bullfrog
deep
down inside a nearby well,
the rumble of artillery
harassing
the enemy in the next valley over,
and the loudest
sound of all,
their own hearts.
Catman, the team-leader,
sniffed away at a letter
ten days old,
one of those, "I miss you," letters
from his girl back
home,
penned on paper once saturated
with inexpensive teenage
perfume,
as if the aroma,
if in fact was still there,
was
some strange exotic drug.
Dew, like perspiration,
formed on their black plastic rifle
stocks,
glistened as if the night sky was afloat
on top of the
protective film of gun-oil
wiped upon the metal parts of their
weapons
to prevent rust, weapons
cradled in their arms
like
newborn children.
Then the end began.
Shooting stars,
two of them, crisscrossed
the sky high
overhead,
and before a wish could be made,
one pale white
cheek
appeared to float, what seemed
to be about waist
high
compared to a tall marines.
A cheek coming down the
trail.
A pale white cheek
betrayed by the moon and the death
of
the two falling stars.
Then as a flare, off in the distance,
burst into life, there
appeared,
not one or two, but three
silhouettes,
conical
shaped heads,
perfect targets.
And as the flare burnt itself
out,
like we hear the sun will one day,
the three, clad in
black,
caught in the open,
were never to know
what hit.
Aaaahhhhh...
Catman's love letter falls.
His finger to his lips. Ssssh.
Weapons in slow motion, shouldered.
He parts the weeds so slightly
like a nervous actor, peeks
through
the break in the curtain
before the show begins.
With his index finger raised,
in their heads, the marines hear,
"one,"
and the bullfrog croaks.
Index and middle
finger, "two,"
and mosquitoes dare land.
And just
before three,
just before the squeeze of the trigger,
a sound,
like mud,
like potters clay,
oozed between the toes of the
enemy.
And then,
surprise.
A flash and quick
snap-flash-crackle-crack-crackle,
like the
crackle of one
pack of fireworks
exploding in the night
to
celebrate the Fourth.
And then,
done.
And in the pitch, the black,
which followed,
the three laid
dead in nature's
silence, in puddles of blood,
dark as
crankcase oil, floating
on top of the mud.
Young No More
The young marine's right
thumb, forefinger and middle one,
in a
pinch-grip,
pulled taught the dead
enemy's ear away from
blood
matted hair while
the left hand, wrapped
white-knuckle tight
around the worn
smooth
leather handle
of a less than sharp
K-bar, hacked the
blade
back and forth
through hard rubber
like cartilage
until
the ear was severed.
In the open palm
of the young marine's right
hand, the ear
curled
in defense of itself,
fetal like, detached
from
former life.
And in time, hanging
from the young marine's rucksack,
attached
by a piece of thin wire
pierced through, the ear
shriveled and shrank,
a grape into a raisin,
never to be a
glass of wine,
never to be sipped
by the young marine turned
old.
Left Behind
We came upon a young girl, lying on a
woven bamboo mat, in this
bone dry
ditch, naked from the waist down, except
for a swarm
of flies and gnats which left us
with the image of staring through
a screen door
at her blood stained legs, knees bent, drawn
into
her stomach.
Glenn, our pointman, quick-like snapped
from his hip, his sixteen,
aimed, but did not shoot,
then came to drop on one knee at the
sight of her
long black hair and all the blood and called for
Doc,
who broke from the column, ran up the trail, and too,
knelt
beside her.
As the patrol slowed to a halt, as I came abreast of this scene,
I
noticed what I was told later to be the after-birth at her feet.
Yet
she was alone. Had the sight of us marines scared her family
away?
And where was the child?
We'd never know, for no one amongst us spoke her language,
or
could read her eyes, and even if we could, barrel-assing up the
trail
was the sergeant who demanded to know what the hell the
holdup was.
"Damn, look for yourself," Doc said, and
began to plead her case, along
with Glenn and a few others who
only wanted to help, wanted to see her taken
to safety. Yet it
was the sergeants bellow we bowed to, and not our hearts and minds.
"I see no baby!
Leave her.
Move the hell out.
This is
plain and simple.
A trick.
A goddamn ambush."
And we left her behind.
The Moratorium
In protest
of the war,
everyone driving a vehicle
on the day
of the Moratorium,
drove with headlights on,
in the bright
light of day. Yes,
it seemed like everyone.
I rode around town
with my old high school pals,
drank beer in
the back seat.
Half smashed,
I told about a village
we burnt, after John, from
Wisconsin,
was blown to smithereens.
"Not cool," they
said.
Not the part about John, tripping
a booby-trap, but the
burning of the village.
Stopped at a red-light,
I opened the car door,
stumbled out,
and walked away
on my own.
My pals drove around the block,
then came back,
flashing the
headlights
from high to low,
to high to low,
blew the
horn
made a ruckus,
and threw me the finger.
Before Midnight
When I came home from the war,
the high school girls wanted no
more
than burgers, fries and a coke from McDonalds,
or, wanted
just to hold hands and be friends,
and always needed to be
home,
before midnight.
Me? I wanted to be in Bangkok
once more.
A Consequence of War
Sometimes
I just can't figure
how one year
or three hundred
sixty five days
or eight thousand, seven hundred, sixty hours
or
five hundred, twenty-five thousand minutes
or thirty-one million,
five hundred, thirty-six thousand seconds
or the memory of one
dead friend,
in Vietnam,
can screw up the other
ninety-seven
point five percent of my life,
sending me into a rage
when I
open the refrigerator door
and discover the milk
has been
pushed to the rear,
blocked by the iced tea.
Survivor's Guilt
my neighbor told me
he went to the Wall,
said he should have
gone,
could have gone,
wanted to go,
had orders,
but...
I went.
should have
died,
could have died,
almost died,
but...
John Wayne
Not back then, not back
there, back in the jungle
in the thick
of battle
when I drew a bead
upon your silhouette
centered
dead in my sights,
but now
years later
as I
walk with my dog
through the forest
autumn colored
peaceful
and quiet,
I wonder,
"Had you ever heard of John
Wayne?
And who did you
want to be when you,
or if you had
grown up."
The moment
I
squeezed the trigger
and your silhouette
dropped from sight,
I
haven't forgotten you,
haven't known who I am, not
since I
became John Wayne.
Confession
You come to confess your sins?"
"Yes Father... I shot
and killed a man."
Yes, go on.
I
killed him.
When?
During the
war.
This man, he was a
soldier?
Yes, Father
An enemy
soldier?
Yes Father.
And you were a
soldier?
Yes Father, in battle.
Well, son, those
things happen. Do you have other sins for the Lord?
No, Father
No?
No, Father.
How are you with
yourself?
What Father?
How are you? Do you touch? Masturbate?
......... Yes
Then let us bow our heads and pray for forgiveness.
#####
I
served in Vietnam with Mike Company,
3rd Battalion, 5th Marines,
1st Marine Division
from October 1968 to October 1969.
I had
just turned eighteen
when I arrived in country.
Nothing really
prepared me
for what I saw.
I returned to Vietnam in June of
1990.
People asked me why I would want to go back
to a place
which seemed so troubling
for me. I told them I was going back to
see
if I had really been there the first time.
When I returned
back home in 1990,
my old war wounds were opened wide. I
had
reoccurring dreams. I sat myself down one morning
and began
to write. I had never written a poem in my life,
but the words
just came to me,
and although the visions may disturb the
reader,
my nightmares have come to an end,
and hopefully yours
won't begin.
Please
remember those who lost their life
in Vietnam, and try to be kind
to those who survived,
those who can always use a little love.
Connect with Me Online:
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