My brother, Jim, was flying to Vietnam just as astronauts Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins were hurling towards the moon on Apollo 11. It was July 1969 and Jim had just turned twenty. He spent a year in combat and his platoon was attached, at least part of the time to the 173rd Airborne Brigade. I was sixteen, and to say the least, naive about what dangers he was about to face. My parents never discussed politics or the war, but I remember my mother sending packages of bread, socks, batteries, candy and other things he requested. I had no idea Jim wrote letters to my parents, until he passed away last year after a long difficult illness.
When attended his memorial service in California I was delighted that his wife, Cindy, shared with me a packet of letters from Jim to my parents. I was amazed to receive them, read every word and transcribed them. As children, Jim was fun and sweet. I saw that again in the letters. He used to tease me like big brothers did, and I remember how determined he was to grow his hair long and wear bell bottoms in high school, which my father railed against.
I was so grateful to see his handwriting and to read his sentences. He was a very good writer who thought about details. It was touching how much he depended on “goodies” sent from home. He talked about his duties as a soldier, as well as his fears and longing for home. This is an ending of a six page letter:
Page 6 I'm expecting these packages any day now. Wish they'd hurry up and get here. I'm getting hungry for some decent food from back in the world. I really look forward to the goodies. Well that's about all for now. I gotta go clean my mortar and get ready to fire tonight. I'll write a few lines tomorrow. Love, Jim
I have written poems based on his letters and it’s helped trigger memories about my family. The letters seem to lend themselves to poetry and I’ve thought a lot about what it means to take his words and rework their form, adding line breaks and pauses. How could they be part of a memoir of that year from my point of view as a high school senior? Or a fictionalized novel in verse? I’m not sure what this will evolve into, but it’s been meaningful to me.
I’ll share one of many.
QUIET NIGHT IN VIETNAM, 1969 There’s nothing happening. I worry it’s so quiet. This fire base hasn’t been hit in over 30 days, but before that, it was hit two or three times a night. My C.O. said this place has taken more enemy rounds than any place in Vietnam except Ben Het. That’s hard to believe because it’s so damn quiet. One of these days I’m gonna leave this place forever and it will be behind me for good. And I wonder how I’m gonna act. ©Janice Scully 2020
Welcome to Poetry Friday! Rebecca Herzog is our host at Sloth Reads.