This poem was written by me and sent to my brother, Tom, when he was a Marine tunnel-rat in Viet Nam.   The year was 1968, and I was 15 years old.   My parents, my nine siblings and I waited every day for word on whether or not he was still alive.   Suppertime was tense and worrisome for all of us.

View from Viet Nam

You just sit at home and watch T.V., and sip a glass of cold iced-tea;

The new comes on and then you hear the all-star game is drawing near.

And then you see a faraway land where men are fighting in the sane.

A frown appears across your face; you’re tired of hearing about that place.

Who cares about Viet Nam across the sea?   It’s far away and doesn’t concern me!

You’d rather hear the Beatles play than learn about the world today.

It’s great to be alive and free; forget the guy across the sea.

He’s far away, fighting a war, to keep the fight from our front door.

A guy who lives in filth and slime; how can he do it all of the time?

You lucky guy, you laugh and sneer; but have you ever known real fear?

This fellow faces death each day, yet still has something light to say.

No mail today . . . a wave of sorrow; but what the heck, there’s always tomorrow!

He walks all day, stands watch all night.   He’s tired and sick, but still he’ll fight.

The college crowd thinks he’s a fool, but that’s what makes him hard and cruel.

Do you appreciate what he’ll do?   Like giving up his life for you?

Yet, he asks nothing in return, so you can go to school and learn.

The days are hot, the nights are too.   What wonders a letter from home can do.

He dreams of a nice, thick, juicy steak.   Then someone yells, “There’s a hill to take!”

Some will be heroes because they’ll be brave; and many will earn a wreath-decked grave.

They can be spotted as they go by; there’s a sad, but proud, look in their eyes.

They’re called the world’s best war machines; there go the United States Marines.