APO 96225
by Larry Rottmann

A young man once went off to war

in a far country

When he had time, he wrote home and

said, “Sure rains here a lot.”

 

But his mother, reading between the lines,

wrote, “We’re quite concerned.  Tell us

what it’s really like.”

 

And the young man responded, “Wow, you ought

to see the funny monkeys!”

 

To which the mother replied, “Don’t

hold back, how is it?”

 

And the young man wrote, “The sunsets here

are spectacular.” 

 

In her next letter the mother

wrote, “Son we want you to tell us

everything.”

 

So the next time he wrote,

“Today I killed a man.

Yesterday I helped drop napalm on women and

children.  Tomorrow we are going to use

gas.”

 

And the father wrote, “Please don’t write such depressing letters.  You’re upsetting

your mother.”

 

So, after a while, the young man wrote, “Sure rains a

lot here…”

 

                                                                                                Larry Rottmann, U.S. Army

Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

The Man He Killed
by Thomas Hardy

"Had he and I but met
        By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
        Right many a nipperkin! 

        "But ranged as infantry,
        And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
        And killed him in his place.

        "I shot him dead because – 
        Because he was my foe, 
Just so – my foe of course he was; 
        That's clear enough; although 

        "He thought he'd 'list perhaps, 
        Off-hand like – just as I – 
Was out of work – had sold his traps – 
        No other reason why. 

        "Yes; quaint and curious war is! 
        You shoot a fellow down 
You'd treat if met where any bar is, 
        Or help to half-a-crown."