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After reading the poems published on this site, I went down to my basement and found a alblum I was searching for. In that alblum was a poem that I had sent home in December of 1967 while I sat on Hill 881. When I first read it I remember leaning back against my helmut and thinking how strikingly strong yet simply written these words were. The bravado between a father and son were all of a sudden inconsequental and the warmth and care of a mother reached out like always. Selfishly I sent it home as a Christmas present and felt the warmth while doing it. I did not compose this poem nor do I claim to have. Saying that I hope "Warriors of Hill 881 South" will enjoy this as I did forty years ago.
a wrinkle on her brow. Her mind a half a world away, her eyes look sad somehow. She wipes awasy a lonely tear, with the back of a aging hand. And goes on with her endless prayers for her son in Viet Nam. proud yet silent to. His mimd with hers, ten thousand miles, his eyes are wet now to. He's glad his son can't see the tears, he's supposseed to be a man. And men don't cry, to say good-bye, to a son in Viet Nam and all are stained with rain. With mud and dirt comes "love you, mom, don't worry I'm okay". So day by day their prayers go on, doing really all they can. For while they pray, he still remains, their son in Viet Nam. And somewhere in a muddy hole, another tear is found. But this man's pain is lost in rain, and the blast of motar rounds. But later tonight, at the end of the fight, he'll fold his muddy hands. And pray to God, for "Mom and Dad", this son in Viet Nam. I hope this finds my Warrior Brothers and their families well and enoying the holidays. We are all fine and well on this end. My son Jesse, who a lot of you met at the November 2006 rerunion, has joined the Marine Corps and is at Parris Island as I write. Respectfully,
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