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You asked recently
if I get strength from
my life experiences?
The answer is, “Yes!”
But, that bravado
hides my guilt and shame.
There was a time
when I blamed myself;
no, subjugated myself.
Where do I get my strength?
From my weaknesses
and my frailties.
How do I explain to you
what is in my heart,
and dictates how I live my life?
Twice my back has been
wet with warm, brown blood
of a comrade that I carried.
A thing one never forgets.
It changes one's perspective
on life; how one lives life.
How can you understand
what I have experienced,
or appreciate what I carry?
It is with me every day.
I live with it. I try to move on.
But, I never forget... never!
Let me tell you
about one day
in my life.
It was early morning,
hot, dark, wet... the air
heavy with burnt sulfur.
My thighs strained — burned.
I gasped, and searched for
air in suffocating humidity.
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Fear of dying... the worst, alone...
anesthetized the shrapnel
peppering my belly.
My heart raced... pounded —
I thought it would burst through my chest.
I was so horribly scared, sweet Jesus!
I struggled to hold onto Stan
and kept telling him
that he would be all right.
I knew Stan Border almost two years.
We went through Jump School together.
I called him Buda – because it aggravated him.
I knew the moment he died;
his rasp escaped into my ear,
his body wrapped tighter about my shoulders.
I remember cocking my head and
meeting his vacant, glassy stare.
And my tears poured uncontrollable.
And I ran faster. The brush cut my face
like fine edges of paper,
my tears burned in the open cuts.
Memories flashed like a kaleidoscope
of my life, lovers, friends... comrades.
Of dreams that I still wanted to live.
I prayed to God for strength!
Please, give me courage!
Show me the way. Help me be a man!
I tried to protect Stan as we escaped.
How do I explain that to you?
He was my friend... my friend...
We swore never to leave the other behind.
A naïve commitment, but whatever it took,
we would bring the other home.
There was security in that promise.
And as Stan jostled on my back
He repeatedly reminded me.
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As we fled for safety, with each step
he forcibly exhaled in my ear
”You promised! You promised...”
And then Stan’s body fluids began to settle.
I thought — no, hoped, he was snoring.
But, I had heard it before... the death rattle.
And I ran faster and I ran harder.
And I wept like a baby.
And I talked to Stan.
I’m trying... I’m sorry.
Stay with me. Don’t leave me!
I’m trying... Oh, Mother of God, help me!
And at some point I was so angry.
At some point I no longer was scared.
At some point I was glad I was alive.
You asked recently
if I get strength from
my life experiences?
I’d go to hell and back for Stan!
It has to do with loyalty and honor.
But, it also has to do with the others.
I still think of my promise broken
with them and when alone I cry for
Staff Sgt. Rowe
Spec.
Jerry Dubois
Spec.
Mike Miner
Spec.
Garcia
They visit me at night sometimes
to remind me that I left them behind.
They are my ghosts, my guilt, my shame.
Forgive me,
Ed
173rd ABN BDE
2/503rd Inf, E Co., Recon
 '69
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