FORWARD: I've had these poems and journals that my
father wrote for several years. I never knew he was in Vietnam until after
he died. He never said a word. I wonder what made him so ashamed? The
certificate with his second Purple Heart states that he was wound in a night
defensive position in Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam. He served
with the 1st Marine Division Alpha 1/1.
Sincerely,
My grandmother also gave me my father's decorations, pictures, a NVA flag
and some other items.
He was a very giving man, who couldn't do enough for people. He loved kids. Growing up the kids in the neighborhood, including myself, adored him. It's funny to look back. He would be outside doing something and in twenty minutes there would be a half a dozen kids out there helping. He made everyone feel important. I remember when we moved, kids in the neighborhood brought him little gifts that they made.
He use to say that only people who liked him were kids, older people and
animals. He was right. He had very few friends his own age. He spent as much
time with older people as he did with kids. They admired him as well. He
help organize a Senior Olympics locally that was one of the first programs
of its type. I always went with him when he worked with senior citizens, and
it was fun to watch how they behaved around him. It was almost like watching
the neighborhood kids.
People his own age seemed to be fearful of him, as if he knew something that
they didn't want to know. It took me a while to understand why this was
true. People his own age sensed that he had faced his own mortality and that
was something they were denying. They were fearful of that.
His whole life was spent helping people. He received a lot of recognition
for his efforts. I guess I'm still trying to understand why someone who did
so much, was still unhappy. Anyway, thank you for reading his poems. I'm not
sure what to do with them. My greatest fear is that if given to the public
to read, they would judge him unfairly.
Dear Mom,
He looked up at me and smiled,
I lied to him.
I told him fairy tales,
His eyes closed slowly,
He was asleep,
I laid him on the ground in a soft bed
"I give up
I scooped up a handful of dirt
Like me,
alone
and frightened
That fear is over.
A voice called.
This was my best
Your son,
I held him in my arms like a father
holding his newborn son,
proud and afraid.
I was afraid that he would die
before I had a chance
to tell him
what he needed to hear.
trusting me,
believing in my strength and courage;
believing that I could carry him to safety.
stories I heard as a child.
He looked at me
and listened,
his eyes filled with wonder and hope.
He was innocent and pure,
a child cradled in the arms of weakness
and doubt,
swaddled in trembling fear and desperation.
and his arm slipped off my shoulder.
It hung limp and lifeless at my side.
His body,
draped over my arms like a green shroud,
relaxed and rested,
shed its bone-tired weariness
and final fear.
peaceful, eternal sleep.
He was no longer troubled by the thoughts of war
--the fear of death.
of blood red dirt.
I removed my flak jacket and placed it
under his head for comfort.
I pulled a canteen from a pouch on my web belt,
unscrewed the cap
and poured some over my fingers.
I touched his eyes, hands and boots
with my wet fingers;
and mumbled this simple prayer:
to You,
this innocent child,
God!
. . . My arms are tired.
He is too heavy
for me to carry . . .
Forgive this man
and take him
to his final resting place
beside You!"
and sprinkled it over his body,
burying him deep
in my memory.
Mom,
he is just eighteen,
--and afraid
of dying.
I picked up my rifle
and ran for cover.
that day,
Mom.
L/Cpl L. Parrillo
USMC 1/1
Vietnam 1969
One of his first journal entries . . .
I see his face in the back of my mind.
I shot a man, and I killed him stone cold dead.
I piled his body up in a nice neat stack;
I feel the cold hand of Death on my shoulder.
Death talked to his son, like every father should.
"Listen, son, if you wanna be just like me,
I took his words to heart and made them my own.
This is my future in this place, in this war.
Not now.
Not ever.
I'm tattooed like most grunts.
It's the only one there, and not hard to find.
I see his cold, dead eyes starin' out at me;
Burnin' in my memory, remindin' me.
I put two bullets in the front of his head.
Then called the number in to the big brass shack.
They marked that number on their big black tote board;
And told me to kill more of the yellow horde.
"We need more numbers, like these, to raise the score;
To show the folks back home, we're winnin' this war!"
I feel myself gettin' bolder and bolder.
He's like my new father, he's comfortin' me.
He's tellin' me to be what I have to be.
He's tellin' me to be a bad ass Marine,
And to be the best goddamn killin' machine.
His voice whispered, was calm and strong as he stood,
Lookin' into his eyes, deep down inside him,
Holdin' him in place, grippin' his tremblin' limbs.
Then you gotta hide low in those jungle trees.
Wait for Charlie to come bebopper' along;
Then, drop his sorry ass and show him who's strong.
Use your rifle, son; use your jungle knife.
But just remember to take life after life.
You've got a lot to kill to catch up to me.
So, get busy, son; get on our killin' spree."
With my first dead man kill, the seeds had been sown.
My hands aren't stained, and there's no blood anywhere.
There's just the smell of death hangin' thick in the air.
This is what I'm here for: To kill more and more!
I can't be that nice young man that I was once.
My father never talked about the time he spent in Vietnam. All that I've
learned has come from letters he wrote home and a diary that he kept.
According to my grandmother, when he needed to think and understand he wrote
poetry. He wrote quite a few poems while he was in Vietnam. He wrote Who
Cares to help himself and also to help his mom, my grandmother.
Some times I wonder what my mother thinks,
Is she worried about me over here?
"He's my only son, and I love him so;
"The joy, Dear God, he brought into my life;
"I held his hand at night when he was scared.
"He is no angel, God, you can be sure.
"My empty hearts pleads to Your loving grace.
"He played when he was just a little boy.
"Thank you for listening to me up there.
The cookies done and cooled and packed up,
A mother's anger and a mother's pain
Thanks, Mom, for thinking about me.
Your son,
As she stands alone at the kitchen sink,
Looking out the window, into the yard,
Making me cookies, measuring the lard.
Does she think I'll make it through the whole year?
Does she whisper to Him, a mother's prayer?:
"Please watch over him, God; Protect him there!"
And I cried so hard when I watched him go.
He was embarrassed by the tears I shed.
But they were the words I left unsaid."
Filled it with happiness, freed it from strife.
He is to me, God, a labor of love.
No greater good could've come from above."
I held the bugs, worms and frogs, and I shared,
The many times when he was cold and sick;
The many times I switched him with a stick.
It'll take lots of forgiveness to make him pure.
But, he is my only son, and I Love him so.
Tell me You'll protect him, please let me know!"
Let him come home, dry these tears on my face.
I want to see his grinning smile out there;
Outside my window--in the yard--out where . . ."
When life to him was just a great big toy--
Something for him to throw and kick around;
Something stuffed in his pockets, that I found."
Thank you for giving me his life to share.
And, thank you for hearing this mother's prayer.
Let him come home safely without a care!"
Will she sit down and have a half a cup
Of cold coffee, held in her trembling hands?
And think again, her son's in another land.
Will break her poor heart and drive her insane.
But she trusts God, and makes her simple plea:
"Bring my only son safely back to me!"
L/Cpl L. Parrillo
USMC 1/1
Don, my father took his life in 1991. As for a picture, I'm not sure there is one. He
destroyed most things before he died . . . it was as if he was trying to
erase his existence. Things that survived such as his letters and journal,
the NVA flag and medals were things that his mom, my grandmother had. Even
those things were thrown away at one time and retrieved by her. The poems
are already protected under copyright laws. At the suggestion of the
pyschologist who treated my father for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I
sent copies to the Office of Copyright earlier this year. The psychologist
was the one who suggested that I contact someone, like yourself. He believed
the poems would be appreciated and benefit other Vietnam Veterans. The
psychologist has used several of his poems in counciling sessions with
Vietnam Veterans. One veteran, for example, was unable to tell his parents
what it was like to lose his best friend. Apparently, the poem "This Was My
Best That Day, Mom" said what he wanted to tell them about the loss of his
friend. The psychologist, who has worked with veterans since 1969 when he
was stationed at Walter Reed Hospital, broke down and wept after reading
one poem. My father often signed his poems Einstein, apparently, the men in
his unit gave him that nickname because he wrote a lot. Gene