Phan Rang's F-100s

Standing on the ramp with a view of the runway, you could see the afterburner light off, and the Hun, loaded with bombs or napalm and heavy with fuel, begin a slow crawl toward Charlie Mountain and disappear on the runway's horizon before rising above it, and they were off on the day's first sortie, off to fight, while we in Life Support or the mechanics stayed and readied the next group of fighter jocks and airplanes. During the course of the day, flights returned with pilots wet with sweat from the long taxi; aircraft without bombs and low on fuel, but with film cannisters full, film they reviewed in the pilot lounge with Life Support leaning against the wall to watch, the wall that held a North Vietnamese flag and an AK-47. The film, a forward view, showed nothing of consequence, jungle or a river getting closer, closer until you could discern trees in the jungle, a boat of some sort on the river. Then the view shifted to bombs falling or cannisters of napalm tumbling end over blunt end, sparking sunlight with each revolution, toward inconsequnce, as far as the eye could see, and then, not even that, just jungle again, just a river.  In seconds, the jungle errupted with fire and the river into towers of water. Some flights did not return.  The major was found at the base of a tall tree that caught his parachute; his tree lowering device failed to work, and he unlatched himself from the harness, no doubt hearing the enemy, but the fall broke his neck. Some were even less fortunate.  That little first lieutenant, Frenchie, completed all his missions and was heading home, back to "The World", when the C-130 he was riding in got shot down on the way to Cam Ranh Bay. It broke our hearts.        

(Photographs and news regarding the 135th Tactical Fighter Squadron,

Phan Rang, Vietnam, 1970-71; third photograph by Steve Ketzer, Jr.,

all others by USAF.) 

Hitler in the Mirror

Touring the 45th Infantry Division Museum in Oklahoma City, the aircraft, tanks, tracked and wheeled vehicles outside,and inside jeeps,weapons and uniforms,all standard military fare,except for a room of original cartoons by Bill Mauldin and a history of the 45th insignia, originally a swastika, by way of and for the many Native Americans,who, since 1920, served honorably in that division. They forsook the swastika in 1933, for obvious reasons, and became the thunderbirds. But, nothing came to life, not like seeing Napoleon's stuffed horse and dog in a dusty room in Paris, then I entered a room filled with treasures taken from the Eagle's Nest in Berchtesgaden, the apartment and bunker in Berlin, including furniture and a dining room table with chairs, place settings with Nazi napkins, knives, forks and spoons one could easily imagine sliding into the mouth of Goering, Goebbels, Himmler, Rommel, Chamberlain, Loyd George, Mussolini...Eva Braun. Alone in the room, I quietly circled the table so as not to disturb the guests.  Passing a mirror on the wall, I looked into it and saw Adolf Hitler staring back.

Woodpecker

That woodpecker,
his beak chattering
on the aluminum light pole,
won't listen.
Maybe it's too noisy to hear.
Well, good luck, buddy.

Carrabelle

Where the Carrabelle River
flows into the gulf, oddly,
Crackers outnumber Yankees.

When asked about dogs on the beach,
the young desk clerk tilts her head to say,
"Well, I don't see why not."

Camp Gordon Johnston,
where troops trained for D-Day,
hangs to history by its fingertips.

The Franklin Inn,
the Fisherman's Wife,
Hog Wild Bar-B-Q,
&

Fathoms bar,
sunglasses & grey beards,
tattoos & desert camo netting,
sea breeze & my dog, Pinky,
with a cup of ice.

Carrabelle has no stop lights,
but you may stop if you like,
and if you don't like it,
just keep on going, pal.

The Forgotten Coast
is best left forgotten.

Apologies to John Prine on Valentine's Day

Fist through drywall,
fist through a door,
dishes all broken
right there on the floor.
Well, it looks like something
Picasso would paint,
a mere matter of canvas,
but, honey, it ain't.
It's the sins of our fathers
and our mothers, too;
the sins of the Nazis
(Whoa!),
the sins of the Jews,
so shake it, don't break it,
and I'll tell you what,
those old men there
were checking your butt.
Sunrise, pot pies,
Rice-a-Roni,
white bread and mustard:
It's all baloney.
Now, you're leaving me
for another jerk.
I don't understand it,
but whatever works.
I'll gird up my loins
and pack up my clothes.
You know,
I always loved you
in that there pose,
arms all akimbo,
head to one side,
hair pinned up in back:
Take him for that ride.

Now wasn't that a Merry Dish

Four and twenty tarantulas
all squirming in a pie
with lumps and bumps and crevices
and sockets there for eyes.

Four and twenty tarantulas
all hungry for a mouse
or a hapless hummingbird
(they're waiting at your house).

Four and twenty tarantulas
press on the soggy skin
and angled legs protrude
like hair on head and chin.

Now, when the pie burst open
the spiders freely crawled,
but, oh, look at the pastry
still splattered on the wall.


(1988)

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream like a Dog

It begins with a twitch, the flip of a paw,
there on the floor before us,
a finger to the lips, "Shh...she's dreaming,"
then flipping paws, all legs jerking,
after that squirrel, no doubt, or...who knows;
she may catch it this time,
in her dreams.
Now a growl, a snarl,
probably for that pit or rotty
(I wouldn't do it, Pinky;
don't turn this into a nightmare),
muffled barks through fluttering jowls.
Quiet again.
Her tail's wagging, "Look at that!"
Now running again, just running, running.
O, to be outside the fence,
free of leash, free of chain,
forever.


01/03/2013