Operation Just Cause... ...for as long as it takes
by Dennis Johnson
I walk this earth in search of ghosts.
Not the translucent vagaries of too much drink or imagination;
But haunting, none the less.
The ghosts are men who disappeared while serving our country;
The ones who didn't come home.
Granted, none of us came home the same person.
But most of us made it home alive.
I see the ghosts of those brave men not yet home.
Those who were lost to us.
Those who died.
Those who were captured.
Those who are still missing.
I see them in many places, both expected and unexpected.
When a see Old Glory waving in the wind, I see them.
When I hear a certain song, a phrase, a name,
I see them.
When I sit at the Wall they gather 'round,
Seeking news of family, friends, things in the World.
When I walk the streets at night they walk with me.
I am never really alone.
Remembering the dreams I had back then,
I mourn the loss of all the dreams they never
had a chance to fulfill.
Remembering the songs we sang back then,
I think of all the songs they've never heard.
Remembering my children as they were growing up,
I wonder about all the children who
grew up without their fathers.
There was a time when I hid from the ghosts of war.
Living in a void, trying to avoid.
Now I seek them out.
They are all around me.
Robbed of their future, they remind me of the past.
They want to be remembered and I will remember them, forever.
©2000 Dennis Johnson
by Marsha Burks Megehee
I stood at THE WALL at midnight
Old Glory waved, not a sound was heard
At the base of the altar of granite
On paper, small hands had drawn a bird
In crayon blue, with first-grade care
For all the world to see
From the honest heart of a child
I was ashamed, of me
Through tears I read the message there
"Please, POW, don't you die
When I am big I'll get you home
Love Jason, Please don't cry.
"And a little child shall lead them."
Came rushing through my head
A letter signed "Love Susan"
Held great big hearts in red.
Tommy drew four stick men
Waving through black bars
Johnny drew a space ship
Escaping a jungle, through gold stars.
April drew a rescue plane
Then wrote "Oh please get free".
Bobby's gift was a finger-smudged
Statue of Liberty
I looked and there were hundreds
Placed close against THE WALL
Letters to our missing ones
In crayoned child-like scrawl
As I turned and walked the pathway
I marveled at the sight
Hundreds of tiny activists
Left hope, at THE WALL that night.
Please see: The Activists
by SheenaWatson
I sit alone in solitude,
my mind drifting into the past,
as the morning mist
falls from the sky...
my pain I try to mask.
I can still see the flash of
light
and feel the pain exploding inside,
I can lock the memories inside my
mind,
yet still I can not hide.
What makes a man lose himself
for things he can not change
I can not explain
my actions,
as I drift a way each day,
lost for a moment in the haze
with My
Brothers of Yesterday.
They never left my side as I lay there in the rain,
they told me they would
get me home...
yet some of them remained.
The love for my Brothers is one
you can't describe,
I only know its true,and comes from deep inside.
They
know more about you than anyone could,
they would do more for you than anyone
ever would...
So when I drift away at that coldest part of the day,
I am
visiting my brothers,
the ones who are POW or KIA
Don't be so quick to judge me,
or assume that I'm insane,
I"m traveling a
road few could understand,
to see MY Brothers of Yesterday.
Yes, its cold here this morning
in the mist before the dawn,
I'm on a lonely
journey,
back to the jungles of Vietnam.
Don't worry about me,
I won't be
gone long,
just have to see some old friends
,that didn't make it home.
When I get back don't ask me about the tears in my eyes,
it happens to us
vets...when its time to say goodbye.
There will always be another time that my mind drifts away-
--give me time ,
I'll be back, I'm with My Brothers of Yesterday.
by Mark Carroll
When I have ceased to break my wings against the faultiness of things,
And learn that compromises wait behind each hardly opened gate,
When I can look life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the truth, and taken in exchange my youth.
~ Author Unknown
For some reason, the irony of the above poetic attempt seems to be able to apply to those lost and virtually forgotten in a "land far away." At present, the "land far away" has little of value to offer. Within the walls of this "land far away" the wings of the waiting multitude are beginning to falter. For years, struggle has been the name of the only game in town. The men and women caught deep within the quagmire of Southeast Asia need not only our continued thoughts, but our prayers also. Their wings must be as the little bird that is never allowed to land. Wings must be strong, tested, and supported at times by nothing more than the air about them.
I must catapult myself into an imaginary world for me that far too many of my readers know all too well. This is the world of experiences endured in Southeast Asia. I still believe the United States government cannot be allowed to rest Until All The Men Are Back.1 Their legacies cannot read "To be continued at a later date." Our memories of them and their lives must remain intact and working in order to free them from their personal "Hells" far away.
For many still being held, whether by the term prisoners, criminals, hostages, felonious perpetrators of death . . . you choose the word or words, life has "given them the truth [according to Washington] and taken in its place [literally] their youth." The truth that has been lowered upon their heads, as a fog rolling into San Francisco Bay, is the truth dealt by an ungrateful and uncaring nation.
It would be error beyond imagine to tag me an unpatriotic traitor. I support my country now as I did in 1972 as I proudly walked into the Tyler, Texas selective service office to register. The date was December 26, 1972, the day before my eighteenth birthday. Having been raised knowing the importance of national pride and allegiance, I remember standing there in the living room at an early age with my older brother, Rod. Both of us stood, with our hands on my hearts, as Old Glory waved and the national anthem played. It was the "end of the broadcast day," and we sang of "the land of the free and the home of the brave." The freedom of which we sang was the result of the bravery, courage, blood, and sacrifice of past generations.
Southeast Asia presented a moral testing ground for Dwight E. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, and Richard M. Nixon. Under the callous eyes of Kennedy and Johnson, the blood bath would continue for purely political reasons. There was much, financially, to be gained by our continued presence in Southeast Asia. Much desired capital could be obtained by private corporations under the guise of national defense contracts. It mattered not to hefty politicians pushing their "pork barrel" policies in Washington that an engine would fail on that transport plane carrying my adopted POW/MIA/KIA (body not recovered). Nine miles off the coast of Inchon, while approaching the aircraft carrier Constellation, radio contact was lost. A Search and Rescue attempt turned up nothing by pieces of wreckage. One of the individuals, the body and person I now represent, was not recovered or confirmed dead. His dogtags were not found, and nothing other than the declaration from the Defense Department said he was dead. Yet, since 1969, thirty-one years, Killed In Action-Body Not Recovered has been the only comfort to a family in Houston, Texas. They still grieve for the son and brother missing.
And, least I sound as if the full blame belongs to Kennedy and Johnson, with the glorified Operation Homecoming getting so much needed press for then President Richard Nixon, a reparation aid package slipped between the cracks in Washington. Einstein I am not, however, if I were holding a hostage I would want more than just a promise. I would not settle for someone sending a "promise" of a piece of bread as I starved. I would withhold part of the promise, maybe small, maybe massive, until the full meal was served and my stomach was filled. This is what transpired when aid was forgotten and men were held in the balance. I’m sure there is some valid reason somewhere for the willingness of Washington to spend $700 on a toilet seat while flushing the lives of Americans down that very toilet.
Just as the Scriptures record the thief on the cross crying out, so are the voices of those without voices crying out: "Remember me." "Remember me." The Savior replied in a manner in which the United States government must reply: "Today you will be with me." The hurt felt by those left behind could be lessened if the United States would only utter the words; "Today they will be back with us." There may only be remains, but at least the remains would be back. Possibly, there would be only dogtags, but at least the families could hold those tags and finally have closure.
Election 2000 finds us in a most unusual position. Our next President will be able to make a definite difference in this very important issue. However, I refuse to accept the words of a decorated Vietnam veteran named McCain when his own unverifiable facts say "There are no more prisoners." I refuse to accept the actions of a senator from Arizona, who could very easily be the next Vice-President of the United States, as he walks down the streets of Hanoi, standing at the location of his former torture chamber. His mere presence sent a message through the minds of the captors of some two thousand four hundred thirteen POW/MIA/KIA’s. The North Vietnamese were able to rejoice as they thought, "We have victory over the United States. America has forgotten."
Finally, although it has been many years, I would like very much to think that those missing and presumed dead individuals could now reach out for a memory that could keep them going just a bit longer. Our men and women who have been awaiting the return of a Search and Rescue team need to be afforded the optimism that would result from doing as the poet wrote:
Across the fields of yesterday, he sometimes comes to me,
A little lad, just in from play, the boy I used to be.
Do not allow Eisenhower’s, Kennedy’s, Johnson’s, and Nixon’s ignorance and callous attitudes to continue by way of Election 2000. Whether you cast your vote for George W. Bush, Albert Gore, Pat Buchanan, Ralph Nader, or Daffy Duck make your choice for the man who can be best be pictured saying,
"Today they will be back with us."
~ Mark
1- Carroll, Mark. Until All The Men Are Back. 1999
