Veteran
The veteran of World War II
whose brother drowned on fire at Dunkirk,
who himself had crawled from the collapsed home
of his in-laws in Coventry under the blitzkrieg
had parachuted on D-Day
in a chaotic drop, off their target
and landed through enemy flares and fire
in the woods right there—
he nodded at the maples beyond his garden
from the table where we sat 50 years later,
his wife, three of his children,
six of his grandchildren
and me the English teacher on a fellowship
in the boarding school nearby in Ranville.
All that afternoon the sun shone,
birds chattered from the neighboring woods
that had once rung and stuttered with rifles,
and always, as I knew him,
a gentle smile of gratitude glowed
from the age-carved face of Lou Moreau
tipping the bottles to our glasses
if you could forgive him the lapse
of a moment’s clenched jaw and glare—
where we had it out all day with the Krauts…
—Papa! Attention!
forgetting the bottle, having spilled
back into his smile.
—O la la, he can fight the great battle
but he can’t pour a little glass of wine.
We are approaching the anniversary of that “date which will live in infamy” – that is, if we still remember. And if the memory still contains substance. If our understanding extends beyond a few textbook bullet points. If it’s bolstered, perhaps, by something personal, familial, or a thoroughly fleshed-out imagination. For those too young to have had the chance to ask a veteran about his or her experience in the Second World War– or those who did but lacked, at the time, the urgency to take advantage of the opportunity – we must resort to what remains with us in language, imagery, artifact. And there we might learn that the infamy – of this or any prolonged war – was not confined to one single terrible day nor attributable to only one particular flag or ideology. It lies in the very nature of armed conflict and has roots in our darkest and most primitive origins. Those truths are inscribed upon the psyches of returning soldiers (much to their detriment) and across the extended families of those who did not return.
Sadly, I think our more recent history demonstrates that this country’s collective memory has become dangerously shallow, easily influenced, often misguided or just plain wrong. A mere three-quarters of a century has passed since that awful December 7th morning, and it seems the lessons of that war – not to mention the national unity it generated – have all but evaporated from our culture, leaving us incapable of learning history’s lessons and therefore (as the philosopher George Santayana observed) doomed to repeat even its most egregious errors.
In the 1990’s, poet Michael Steffen spent a long while teaching in France. In a year in Normandy, he had the opportunity to meet several veterans – both French and re-settled Americans. But he was cognizant enough to bear witness to the oral history being shared. The experience generated a long sequence of poems from which today‘s Red Letter is taken. To my mind, the strongest quality of the piece is its willingness to simply listen, and then record those observations so we too might feel ourselves seated in their company. Michael has been the recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship, and his poetry has recently appeared in journals like The Lyric, The Dark Horse, Ibbetson Street, and Constellations. His second book, On Earth As It Is, will be out in early 2022 from Cervena Barva Press, whose appearance I’ll look forward to.
And that little trail of red wine spilled on the table. . .