The died in Anzio, blood-soaked Verdun. In Viet Nam they bled and died again – a brother, father, lover, cherished son – no legendary heroes, only men.
They dreamed of wives and children, fresh-mowed lawns, the corner tavern, frisky dogs, the Mets’ next game, home-cooked meals and rosy dawns, the fence they never painted, unpaid debts.
And talked of many things: the President, women, books that everyone had read, religion, God, the letter they just sent, the war, and how it felt to be stone dead.
Mary Engelberg