The twisted scar on Willie's left leg is pale and dry,
up from the ankle, scaling his thigh,
still snaring the tendons facing the mine.
He hadn't even tripped the switch that awakened the blast.
No, he was pacing in back of the unit when Dave hit the tract.
They ducked. Some never came up.
The helmets were tombstones,
but Willie pulled his leg out of the mud
with help from the two Joes.
Joe Riley, he'd never forget. He sent his pocket watch to his wife.
Joe Delucca, he'd never forget. He's right across the hall, on the right.
But we're sitting here for now.
That's Norm with the cracked stars and stripes
disbarred by time.
He got the ink while docked at Clark in '9,
must have been drinking hard that night.
Now he looks down at his cards and sighs.
See, he's not moving, not since a scar the size
of a shotgun shell had marked his spine.
The lower half. Norm's paralyzed from toes to back
but slowly drags another chip to the center of the table,
while others fold 'em fast.
The smile leaves his face. He tends to get lonely fast.
Another glance out the window,
but no one passes.
And we'll be sitting here for a while.
Him? Sgt. Jim Rose. Don't forget the "Sgt."
As a commander, an invective hard-ass
who smoked whole menthol cartons.
That came back to bite him. Doesn't it always?
He paces, spins, ducks in these hallways,
unable to sit still, the same tack he'd fight with
in his days among the infantry.
That's when he picked up the habit,
displaced his lungs from symmetry.
And the oxygen tank gets dragged around, its weight so humbly limiting.
But we're sitting here for a reason.
The Marshalltown V.A. Hospital flies a flag, tall in a headwind.
It's there to remind us of all we fought for,
of all we gained,
of all we protected.
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