II Desperation: War and Heroes

In April 1969. 
High School is over for me,
But not the war that took a friend
I used to wrestle in school.
Coach knew Frank was meant for trouble,
Like a puma refusing to be caged,
Restless and reckless.
But he won many matches for the team. 
I only won one all year on the B squad.
Frank encouraged me and helped me make moves.

And then, he went to war, Vietnam,
And the rest is not a dream, but a horror from far away.
Where leaders went insane at the price of the men they led.
A squad leader on a mission to assess the damage done;
A B-52 bomber strike at Dau Tieng.
Sergeant Saracino, a point man with hand grenades and a gun.
Pull the pin and launch it upon the bunker of the other side.

Perhaps wrestling moves raced through his mind, which one to choose?
Switch reversal would be good in this clash.
Life passes in a flash.
Double leg takedown, spawl, fireman’s carry.  Save your men,
Throw the grenade at a bunker, stall them ‘til the period ends.
A headlock would help here. Try to pin them down.
Allow your men to withdraw.
The enemy fire machine guns, bullets like swarms of bees.
How to flee? Switch, whizzer, sit out.  Face to face,
Are full Nelsons and choke holds legal on the battleground?

The air is full of war: grenades and screaming guns
Exposed to a hail of bullets, Sergeant Saracino, a master of takedowns,
Placed suppressive fire on the enemy until his comrades
Reached a safer space.  Is that the bell or the door to hell.
And did we win the match? Who could tell, each side took its toll.

The world is brutal clatter: and does it really matter?
Air strikes from above and machine guns rattle on the ground
Both sides desperate now, crazed only to win.
No referee can be found to stop this thing.
All the rules have been shattered, and does it really matter?

Frank charged again in a one-man assault
Upon a bunker, killing its two occupants with hand grenades.
Perhaps he thought: It’s not my fault.
To hell with earthly crusades.  No worries, end of story.

Then somewhere a heavy caliber gun fired on the platoon.
In the smoke of doom, Frank saw his men open to the deadly volley,
He exposed himself to save them by engaging the hostile fire,
As he strove to throw one more grenade.
at the machine gun emplacement, he was killed by the enemy barrage
“Sergeant Saracino's extraordinary heroism and devotion to duty, at the cost of his life, were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.”

Frank, destined for trouble, won the match, and died in the rubble.
But both sides lost the war. Did we learn anything?
All the rules have been shattered, and does it really matter?

C. S. Cholas
12 October 2023

 

Salsabil: (softly flowing river)

Qur'án: 76:18: "From the fount therein whose name is Salsabíl (the softly flowing)."

 Expectation April 1969 Fort Collins, Colorado. 

High School is over for me,
A sweetly strange mood hovers over the air
That lingers from a recent dream.
I stand on the street curb in front of Hickman’s for Men
Looking across South College Avenue
To a campus lawn across the street
It’s my timeline: past, present and tomorrow.
I sense something is going on.
Beyond the war in ‘Nam
Beyond Racial hatred here in my homeland.
Something is going on quiet and deep.
Deeper and beyond what is going on.
Something great is moving in, penetrating the soul.
As I stand in front of Hickman’s for Men
(The store where I bought my Scout uniform.
Years ago in junior high.)
Ethereal voices, a few compressed into one Speech,
Serene, faintly heard somewhere press behind me.
I sense the transcendental Presence of the eternal Essence.
I wonder if those around me feel it too. 
 

I watch an African woman, stately and noble,
Cross South College Avenue
She wears a long, vibrant kaftan
With a matching head wrap,
She crosses the avenue with two large books
Balanced on her head.
Her posture is straighter than anyone
You could meet in my hometown. By her looks
She is beautiful, elegant, and chaste.
I only know she is African, but I am too naïve
To distinguish between tribes and the kingdoms
They once reigned.
She crosses the avenue like a mirage,
Like a soft flowing stream rushing to paradise.
Do I really see her floating by in the spring air?
Maybe this is why I am here, 
Should I follow her and see if she might be a link?
She reaches the other side only to fade away.
Past stale, old buildings, as if she is only a blink
Misplaced in the stroke of another spring day.

Something will happen if I stay aware.
Deep to the bone, a sense, and a whiff in the air.
That the world is to be changed.
It is not clear what, when, 0r where
The restless moment when the world is rearranged.
I am young and think in momentary events
That strike quick like lightning or an atomic blast;
Impulses that bolt fast into life without premeditation.
I watch traffic pass by
Thinking a sign will burst across the sky
Escorted by fire and a heavenly choir.

I watch a car pass by filled with noisy, young men.
The windows are down, and loud music disturbs the mood.
From inside the weathered car, The Beach Boys’
“Two girls for every guy” blares out of old sedan.
The “Girls are made for sex” music of the day.
Not the holy voices I expected to hear.

C. S. Cholas

October 8, 2023
Memory from 1969