A Marine Sergeant:
spend him wisely – goes he glad
now to his brothers.
Wrong on so many levels:
right on just the one which counts!*
- (Rarely – but often enough – I get a fully or near-so as not worth the quibble formed piece of writing thrust through sleep’s ears at me that causes me to grope for the pen and notebook which rest under the phone with a sidewinder-type handcrank one-bulb LED light and begin the write large – more of a scrawl, really. This is except for minor cosmetics one I like most. I knew a United States Marine Non-Commissioned Officer like the man portrayed in the above piece. He had expressed quietly to me inside a bunker taking artillery fire one dark and miserably wet monsoon morning he wished for a bayonet charge into a treeline for a quick, clean death and release from the tedium and terror his times now laid out for him. He admonished me never to use his name or unit identifiers if ever I should write that story. I never did. I don’t know yet if he found his treeline. Others I heard about did. One survived and later – much later – “ate his handgun.” He father was a Marine enlisted-to-General hero who remains still a figure of controversy. The Tanka two-line form came insisting at near-sleep’s door for me to awake and add those two lines. I am glad I did. Too often I resort to: I’ll just remember.” You know how that works, right?)