"Body Bags" and other poems
by
Lieutenant John A. Moller
Platoon Commander
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR
Vietnam War
BODY BAGS
Body bags slick, shining green,
white nylon zips unable to stem
the knowing of limp slack lines
and men who once were friends.Floppy hands and heavy carry
to waiting helicopter doors,
and mates who once smiled
now stacked on aluminium floors.Congealed blood and torn boots
by the bamboo groves
and thumping rotor blades
taking away the stiffened hands.Stacked, flopped, almost liquid
in the obscene formlessness of plastic,
hiding the end product of insanity
and the awful work of jumping mines.Taking from your pocket a letter
still unread, but opened by shrapnel,
and here an arm, and there a leg
neatly body-bagged, and bloody well dead.The ashes of unshown grief choking us
along with the red dust as you go away,
now a mere dot in the vault of the sky
wrapped with your memories in a bag.
A VETERAN APPLIES FOR A JOB
The corporation
In consideration
Of your application
Declines with regret
And wishes to forget
Your aspiration
Bold inspiration
New innovation
References returned
Your offer is spurned
Resumes burned.
The best of luck
Perhaps drive a truck
Wind in your face
But not in this place
I remain yours
The corporate whores.
THE AGENT ORANGE INVESTIGATION The war didn't stop for us
at the final shot,
or the last puddle
of congealing blood
in the padi fields;
The battle for truth
and justice
had just begun.How could you hope to deflect
the fury of our seeking,
the truth behind the pain
and twisted children,
of gallant men suffering
more than human spirit
could endure?Crucifying on the altar
built from your war profits,
men who served you freely
and carried your guilt,
which you debased
in the waving of shrouds
and the turning away
of your faces
from the ghosts of truth.Laughing slyly behind
your money tainted hands
at the rotting flesh
of men poisoned in body,
and in the end
manipulated quietly
into early graves.Victims too tired to protest
but inwardly smiling,
knowing at the last reckoning
that the awful silver
once held by Judas
would be offered to you
by hands once nail-pierced,
which gently led the soldiers
and their broken children
away.
AN ORANGE BRAIN Can't stand big crowds
or noises loud,
red neon lights
flickering quick
make me sick.Funny visions
head aches too,
skin all rotting
turning blue,
joints all aching
but I'll be okay,
the Health Department
told us so,
today.Heart is racing
midnight pacing,
funny how the kitchen's green,
I want to scream
but I'll be all right,
the War Pensions Board
said so,
on television tonight.Did you hear that noise?
Is someone there?
a soft footfall
or coloured rain,
beating deep
in my orange brain.
THE DOMINO THEORY This is the domino theory
the wise old generals said,
we have to play a cunning hand
to stop the fall
of Vietnam.Draft the flower of our youth
and arm them well,
bend the truth a bit -
the domino theory,
we'll make a game of it.Freedom the politicians called
stacking the black-faced slabs so high,
we'll win this game of dominoes
let's draw the straws
to see who'll go.We'll make the soldiers play our rules
the corporations said with glee,
we'll make the bombs and guns and knives
widows of the young men's wives
for a modest fee.You know, said the President
as he turned his back,
we'll have to lie a little more,
this domino deck is stacked
attack I say, attack.But Mister President the advisers grinned
the body count shows we'll actually win,
statistics never tell a lie
with ten thousand more
we'll win this bloody war.No said the people
you have hidden the facts,
and it's not fair
that our sons and lovers
are sacrificed there.The war is lost the politicians cried
and fifty-eight thousand dominoes
fell over
and
died.
SPEAKING OUT There is no power and glory
in the sound of grim spades
digging the graves of youth
not yet shaven but armed
for a nation's lust for power;
the sacrifice of our children
will never balance the ledgers
of good or evil, but only enrich
the makers of arms and blades.
There is no truth in the face of war
flying against the quiet heartbeat
of the universe in which we dwell;
and, too soon, generations forget
the sounds and agony of life-force
squandered, flowing down in ripped earth,
lying uneasily beneath the stones
of freedom and democracy,
put there by political will.
Yes. Politicians make wars and soldiers
expendable in the national interest,
not knowing themselves the cruel butchery
but like young children at play,
directing the slaughter from armchairs,
urged on by old men who once knew
the rattle of sabres on foreign fields
and the shining of omnipotent power,
with the sounds of steel triumphant over flesh.
NO WINNERS There won't be any winners
next time my son,
marching ranks
or split trail guns,
machine-guns' blast
or mortars' drum,
just banshee shrieks
and hot white suns.Six minutes' warning
for the final attack,
and all the missiles
fast on their tracks,
from silo's wombs
they'll leap blue hot,
and history's line
will show a full stop.No time to pack
and kiss and wave
farewell to friends
in their global grave,
flash and blast,
hurricane heat,
mutually assured
and melted streets.No bayonets' charge
of battle lines,
no fronts or sides
or backs,
just high white lines
in wet grey clouds,
supersonic whines
and neutron shrouds.A billion skins
and eyes flash burnt,
pus pain beds
and peace not learnt,
no time to cry
or gnash your teeth,
it could really come
sometime next week.
John Moller joined the New Zealand Army at 16 years of age and at 21 was selected to undergo officer training in Australia. In 1968 - 69 Lieutenant Moller served as a platoon commander with Whiskey 2 Company in Vietnam as part of the 4 RAR/NZ and 6 RAR/NZ ANZAC infantry battalions of the 1st Australian Task Force based at Nui Dat in the Phuoc Tuy Province.HOME
