The Interlude

Where have you gone Grampa? I hardly remember you at all –
just some vague bouncings on the knee when I was
very very young. You always wore suspenders and starched
white shirts – and you lived in that big dark house
on Botolph Street in Quincy. But I think I know you now –
know you better than before – because you went to war –
‘the war to end all wars’ – and I, your grandson, a child
of only three or four when you passed on, followed later –
a little later to yet another war. You left your diary behind
and I read it every once in a while – and I feel your
sadness when you leave America to go to war. You leave
loved ones – and home – and Act One of your life ends
with no resolution, no curtain – just tears, and lumps in
the throat, and forced smiles, and waves good-bye.
And you hope that Act Two will pick up where you left off, and
be as happy as leaving was sad – but before Act Two begins
is this horrible unknown variable – this interlude –
called war. And you know no matter what happens you’ll
never be the same – things will never be the same.
The world will lose what innocence it once held for you –
I know – and I know you better now.

You entered your war on a crowded troop transport –
landing at the port of Brest, France – and you remarked
how small and pale and undergrown the children were –
and how they begged for cigarettes and candy. And I
went to war in an air-conditioned jet and landed at the
air base in Bien Hoa, Vietnam – yet there the children
were – the children of war – small and undergrown and
begging for cigarettes and candy – and how we both
felt such sympathy being so new to war and not yet
hardened enough to realize there are too many small and
hungry children – too much suffering to think about –
but we learned – slowly – we both learned the first rule
of war: save your own ass first.

And Grampa, you wrote about how you were finally issued
your Packard truck – and how you drove it to the front
from Soilby and Verdun – with the German ‘aeroplanes’ firing
from above – and the air guns pumping at them from below.
You wrote how you hauled troops and ammunition for the
big St. Miehl offensive – how the big guns belched forth
flames – and the night was lit up like day – how the
shellfire was relentless – how you thought you would
never survive – how lonely and long the nights
and days were. Grampa, you never heard of my little war –
or names like Phu Cat, Chu Lai, and Qui Nhon. I think
I know you better now – no matter that it took two wars
and sixty years. I’m glad you kept your diary –
Grampa, are you there? No matter.

- by Mark S. Foley

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