I recently received an email from my friend, and Nam Brother, Robert Robeson, who informed me that he recently completed the first draft of a poetry book titled, “The Sights, Sounds, and Smell of War.” He sent me two poems: one is humorous and the other serious which most combat vets can identify with. Have a look!

Retired LTC Robeson was a Dust-Off, medevac pilot with the 236th Med. Det. (Hel. Amb.) in Da Nang (1969-1970) and operations officer before being promoted to commander.

I have seen no combat poetry published on your website but am offering these two should you find them interesting…though a bit out of the normal spectrum of information you usually present.

Admin: I also added two poems found on the FB Group page Que Son Valley Contractors – no author indicated. Perhaps posting poetry will become a new trend. Enjoy!

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

by Robert B. Robes

Nothing changed my perspective of our nation’s flag than

leaving home for a war zone and the possibility of

returning with one draped over my metal coffin.

In combat, I gained a unique understanding of what life, freedom

and the preciousness of home and loved ones really mean.

The hardships of war involve witnessing the carnage and cruelty

of battle, while flirting daily with that demon of death.

Surrounded by the insanity of warfare, I only wanted to

return safe and secure to the sanity of home.

Confrontations in combat have always been profane, ugly, and

terrifying because war’s a bloody enterprise where 

life-threatening events may occur at any moment.

When it felt as though the world had lost its way, I intimately

realized that my family and home were loved with similar  

passion as Satan loves sin, death and destruction.

Even though I was transported halfway around the world, my thoughts

and remembrances of home remained forever etched in my heart.

Returning safely from combat created an unbelievable catharsis for this

grateful soldier. I was fortunate to elude the Grim Reaper. Now  

“home” represented my victory over fear, fatigue and fate.

Que Son Valley Contractors (1 of 2)

He would have been 25 in ’75

might have had a house , kids , a wife

a life

could have been Commander of the VFW

never known a moments sorrow

drove a Chevy , maybe a Ford

a guy his friends adored

could have gone hunting , fishing too

taken a trip to the Bronx Zoo

got his Masters Degree

been in debt up to his knees

but …

none of that was to be.

Que Son Valley Contractors (2 of2)

He was raised under the Carolina sun

Called every woman ” Hon “

Then along came that damn Vietnam war

Well , he up and joined the Corps

like his dad did 25 years before

Went off to Paris Island , Schools Company , Staging

A Marine in the making

Thirteen months later home he came

Everyone said .. He’s changed

though he kinda looks the same

then they saw the look in his eyes

knew the guy had died

How his Momma cried

His Momma cried his Dad swore

their son was no more

killed in that damned Vietnam war

and to this day under the Carolina sun

he still fights a war he’s never won .

PAPA-SAN AND THE MONDAY BURNS

by Robert B. Robeson

Papa-san, the name we all called him, was skinny as a noodle and
seldom smiled. This Vietnamese male version of a hootch maid in
our unit had many talents. From Tuesday through Friday, he’d help
repair military vehicles in our motor pool under the direction and
watchful eye of a maintenance warrant officer.
But Mondays were different.

Early in the morning he’d collect our unit’s officer and enlisted
latrine waste. He manhandled the 55-gallon drums that had
been cut in half for use in disposing of this odoriferous accumulation.
These metal drums were placed beneath both latrine’s four-seater
holes. He’d move them, one after the other, to a large open area where
fuel oil would be added to this potent mix. Using a long-handled
wooden paddle, he’d stir the nauseating contents to ensure thorough
blending before throwing lit matches into each drum. Clouds of black
smoke would billow out and be lifted aloft by consistent sea breeze
along Da Nang Harbor to the north. With other units on our
compound performing this exercise at the same time, it appeared
they were attempting to communicate through smoke signals.
I’ve often wondered how the Army would have denoted his official
job description duties. Would it have been “Vietnamese national
latrine waste burn specialist?” Maybe “Crap connoisseur
extraordinaire?” Or even “Bowel movement manager, first class?”
It might have taken an entire personnel division, at the Pentagon,
to solve that administrative dilemma.

Papa-san had a large family to feed and this job deferred him from
being part of his country’s cannon fodder. The pay was good. Yet
these mandatory Monday burns must have felt like performing his
own vasectomy surgery. I wonder if he ever told his wife about that
part of his job duties. Without access to nose plugs or effective
deodorizers, perhaps that’s one of the reasons he seldom smiled.

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Retired LTC Robert Robeson has submitted four previous articles that I published on this website over the years. They are all great stories and are worth a read. I included the titles and links below:

Admin: If you have a military poem that you’d like to include as part of this article, please post it in the comment section below.

I Knew You’d Come (Guest post)
Death Valley: Remembering August 20, 1969
Remembering Soldiers’ Sacrifices
A MIRACLE AT LANDING ZONE ROSS

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