Back in the 50s and 60s, war on the silver screen, valor galore.
We always won the war, exciting fun to kill enemies,
always went home singing victory songs. Rousing entertainment
while nonchalantly munching buttered popcorn and juicy fruits in
cushy movie seats. Never lost, nobody really hurt. A few died
but insignificant, unknown actors usually, their deaths
a blip on the silver screen. Besides in the movies, less personal,
less real, didn’t register. Nobody got Agent Orange, maimed,
shell shocked or PTSD. Nobody came back in wheelchairs
or missing limbs. Nam changed it all. A friend, Joe Drew,
joined the marines, unlikely candidate, gentle Joe never
got in a fight. Sweet personality seemed incapable of harming
anything. First one in my city home dead in a body bag,
lost his young life, his future in that Southeast Asian jungle.
More deaths followed. Not like the movies, many dying:
sons, daughters, brothers and fathers and mothers.
Many came home maimed in body and in mind, others
in wheelchairs, some with arms and legs blown off.
Agent Orange and PTSD plagued many. No cures.
The 50s and 60s war movies were never like that.
Bob Boyd
