Author's Note: I
wrote this poem in 1990 after hearing a radio interview with a World War II
veteran who lamented the indifference of "young" people toward the
sacrifices made by him and millions of others who fought the good fight. I was
46 years old at the time. My own father, who served overseas in the U.S. Army
Corps of Engineers during World War II, died at age 50 in 1957, when I was 13
years old. Thus, I had little opportunity to talk with him directly about his
wartime experiences.
by Tod Roberts
© 1990, 1999 by the author
I like scratchy old films about the war,
The narrator playing Harry Cary,
Happy when we score, gloomy otherwise.
My generation had its own war, of course,
But nothing like my dad's.
His, a whole world in its name,
Produced square-jawed heroes, at least for us,
The slack-jawed, diapered little sons.
And now we little babies are middle-aged,
Fathers ourselves, slinking through
Our own merely imagined minefields.
Relieved that images can't blow our heads off,
Or maim us for life.
But we the sons still envy our dads
For having the "luck" to fight,
Or be young men when there was fighting to do,
When friend and foe were clear as nightly bomb-blast,
When all men belonged to the best fraternity.
So tell me about the war, Daddy,
Tell me how it felt, what you saw and smelled,
Tell me of the long hours of tedium
Interrupted by moments of panic,
Tell me, did it give your life a special savor,
Did you sweat the shortness of your time on earth?
(Or do we yearn for ersatz glory,
We who were not there, who were the babies
You sired with our moms, who waited at home,
Wondering if we'd have fathers after all.)
Tell me about the war, Daddy,
Tell me at least enough so I can be there too,
To travel timeward back to Normandy beach,
Remagen bridge, death-reeking Karachi,
Flag-flown Iwo Jima, Midway, Coral Sea.
Tell me about the war, Daddy,
So I can make my peace with
You.