For those of you who have stuck it out through all of this (Lordy, I do like to go on), I thank you.
This wasn't easy for me. It was a journey that at times shocked me by how intensly I reacted to the photos, memories, phone calls, emails, and letters I received. Three days ago, as I write this, I got a letter from a Lacy Shoupe from Newton, Alabama. He was writting about his half brother, Hayward Peliholani, who had been killed August 26, 1969. I had never heard of the Shoupe's and it was like a physical slap in the face when I saw Peleholani's name on that paper.
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I saw a man named Smith have both legs blown off at the knee, shortly afterwards they carried him past us to the medavac chopper. He seemed so calm, lying on that poncho. He had only been with the company for a few days and I never got to know him. As I was working on this site I thought of him often, I can see it now in my mind as clearly as I see this screen, and realized that other than his name I knew nothing about him. It seemed so strange that he could impact me so strongly and I know so little about him.
Never in my life have I tried to write a poem, nor had any real interest in poetry but this is for that unknown man named Smith.
I remember a man, a man with no legs,
I remember him well.
I remember him with the soft evening light
shining on a face, a face shocked glassy white.
Yes, I remember him well.
I remember him, though we met just before.
I remember the quick, merciless flash of dirty light
that robbed him of so much, just 'fore fall of night.
I remember he spoke so briefly to me,
but I remember him so very well.
He lay, as I remember, on the grassy ground,
He lay, puzzled and quiet, as his wounds were bound.
I remember his mystified yet knowing face.
This face I remember so very well.
Why did he not cry out at what fate had dealt?
Why did his face not show the hurt he felt.
I remember how he accepted hard fate.
I remember the thought, "Why has fate chosen him?"
"He had labored as well as any of the others around,
so why had malicious fate made him the one it found?"
Yes, I remember him well.
I remember him carried past we watching few.
We watched, more pained than he, as he was carried past
on a stained poncho, green as rice paddy grass.
I remember him, as he went past.
I remember fearing myself beside this legless man.
A lifetime ago we met for no more than a day
but forever in my mind he will stay.
I remember him so very, very well,
I remember this man with no legs.
I remember him in perfect detail -
except for his name,
if he lives today,
his thoughts,
his dreams,
his friends,
his hopes,
his future,
his family,
his jokes,
his stories,
his face,
his home,
his work,
his past,
his life.
Oh, but I remember him so very, very well.
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Where are you today Mr. Smith?