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Young men you were
Made old beyond your years.
Called upon to serve,
      to die,
      to kill.

The tragedy of war is not the dead,
But the living.
Those who survive:
Their innocence butchered,
Their dreams turned to nightmares,
Each night reliving death.

Let the theologians debate if war can be just;
Let the historians argue if this was a good war.
Probably we should have intervened sooner,
Probably we delayed too long entering the battle against evil.
Surely none can disagree that it was pure evil we fought against.
But the price. . .the terrible price.

Some lied about their age to volunteer.
Some volunteered to avoid the draft.
Those who could not go did what they could at home.
And we sent our youngest and best to slog through mud and blood.

The deserts of Africa;
The beaches of Italy
Covered with artillery;
The hills and countryside,
Salerno, Cassini;
Rapido River.
The haunted streets of Pompey—
Somehow death so long ago provided a distraction
From fresh death all around.

My father never told me this,
But when my brother returned from Vietnam
Over some beers, one soldier to another:
Routing out the enemy in an abandoned Italian village
They went house to house.
He tossed a grenade down a basement,
When clear they went to see the damage,
To see if they got any Germans.
Instead they found dead children.
Is it any wonder he lost faith?

Finally the Eternal City,
Rome had been patiently waiting.
Victory in Italy, and some little rest
Before the assault on France.
It was somewhere in France
That my father won his medals.
That story I knew since childhood,
The citations, framed, hung on the wall:
A cook, he did not have to be on the front lines,
Yet there he was, and when they fell
To his right and to his left,
He took over the radio,
He stayed behind as they retreated.
I wondered if he had a death-wish,
If he hoped he would be shot and die so easily
And not have to see others die anymore,
Not have to kill anymore.

Is it any wonder he drank to forget?
Is it any wonder he did not trust others?
Is it any wonder he slept lightly and on guard?
Yet after the war he made the Army his career.
He was proud of his service,
Though he did not discuss the details too often,
And he shielded me from the worst of it.
He remained fiercely loyal and patriotic.
He did what was necessary,
No more or less than thousands of others did.

Young men you were. . .
So young. . .
But that was over half a century ago.
Now you are old,
Those that remain,
Or like my father, you finally died.
You may have survived the war,
But age and frailty catch up with us all.
You did what was asked of you,
What had to be done.
You gave up your youth,
Your innocence,
Your comrades,
Your health,
Your families,
Your hearts and minds.
Yet you never complained,
You were proud,
But never boastful.
You tried to shield your children,
To provide them a world free of war and evil.
(Nobody has that power,
So you remained loyal and ready to fight when necessary.)
You kept the visions of death locked up within.
You kept the nightmares to yourselves,
You remained strong.
And we, your children, never knew,
Never understood.

Young men you were,
But now so many of you are gone.
Teach us before it is too late.
Let us honor you while we still can,
Before we forget why you endured so much,
Before we forget how to fight evil,
Before we become soft and complacent.

Young men you were.
Teach our young men and women,
So that their innocence
May be tempered with wisdom beyond their years.
So that they may serve
      by living,
      by preserving.

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