The Forgotten Soldier

Before you read the following poem, I wanted to explain it's very unique backstory. I recently visited Washington D.C. in September, and while there we visited all of the war memorials. Each memorial was amazing, and sad, and unique in it's own way, but when we reached the Vietnam War Memorial, the tears could not be stopped from flowing. Our guide explained to us that the children that had been in grade school when the bombing of Pearl Harbor happened in 1941, were the same ones joining the Vietnam War, just fourteen years later, in 1955. The World War II Veterans came home heroes, but the Vietnam War was the scorned war, and the soldiers that did make it home, were spit upon, and hated. Many Vietnam Veterans were saved by airport security members from the mobs, told to change their uniform, and never tell anyone that they were in the war. Our guide also told us the true story of a Vietnam Veteran who would come every day to watch the wall, but he was never able to approach it. He would just stand in the trees next to it, and watch over it. Eventually, the man committed suicide next to the wall out of grief. When I heard this true story, I was horrified, and realized that the soldiers of the Vietnam War were  never honored, and because of that, they were never truly able to leave the war behind. The poem "The Forgotten Soldier" is in honor of the man who died as a casualty of the Vietnam War, even if it was on home soil, next to the wall. It is in honor, and a thank you to all of those who served to protect the innocent, and to those who laid down their lives in the ultimate sacrifice and never made it home. We salute you.  We thank you for your service to our county, and we honor you.

The Forgotten Soldier


The wind whistles through the barren trees, 

With each gust I'm trembling not from the cold, but what's haunting me. 

Nobody can fathom the pain I've seen, 

Or that unlike any other war, this is not a memory that has faded with time, 

But is a forever reality. 

I come here everyday to remember the slain,

I feel the choices I've made forever come into play. 

I stand at a distance concealed by the trees, 

Wishing and willing my heart and soul to be free. 

For years I've longed to run my hands over those names, 

To apologize for living straight to the wall's dark face.

But here I stand bound by the fear of public condemnation, 

For my uniform has born only scorn and humiliation, 

Spit on was I who gave my life to this nation. 

I'm weary of living; my soul tormented by the past. 

I'm worn down by regretting the way my life has passed, 

I just want to give up, and rest in peace at last. 

The cancer coursing through my body has left my legs frail, 

This "Agent Orange" is nothing compared to Vietnam; the soldiers hell. 

The breath in my body is the only thing separating me from the dead. 

I scream from the pain the memories I have running red. 

Like the wall this war leaves a scar in my heart you cannot see, but the wound is deep. 

I will never completely heal. 

I try to convince myself the things I've seen were not real. 

I have given up on God, 

I have given up on life, 

I see no future, 

Only the promise of my soul and mind forever in strife, 

So I will leave now, and by no one be missed, 

For I am just another one of those suicidal statistics

I didn't have the honor to die oversees, so my name will not be on the wall, 

Just a civilian deceased. 

I will give up and retire from the position of a mental warrior, 

For I am the forgotten soldier

                                         - Written By Riley Rose 

1941

A freshly fallen blanket of snow enwraps the world with its cold embrace, and expands along the horizon as far as the eye can see. The sky, stretched over the entirety of the world like a canopy is a crystal clear blue that awakens thoughts of the deep universe beyond. All was quiet, but this was not to be mistaken for peaceful, as Peter Payne knew far too well. He was just an ordinary country farm boy from the back hills of Tennessee. He was not a soldier, but yet here he stood, in a valley only heaven knew where, headed straight into an enemy encampment that he knew nothing about, clad in the uniform of his country. This war made a soldier of every man.

“It’s the  valley of the shadow of death, my death.” The sound of his own whisper echoing over the vast, desolate plane before him, took him aback. He shook his head and took a vow of silence, as he refused to allow fear’s icy hand to wrap it’s deathlike fingers around his heart.

His entire life had been invested in his family and the acres of rich soil that they owned, and depended on for their livelihood. The small town that they lived on the outskirts of was straight from a story book. Every soul knew everyone’s names, and the entirety of the community attended the same church, where his father was a preacher. He had been halfway through his senior year when the world turned upside down. December 7, 1941. The day stood out as a black mark in his mind and his soul. After that fateful day, his world would never be the same. His best friend growing up was Timothy Johnston, who had been stationed, and killed, in Pearl Harbor. It was a devastating blow to the community. In the midst of all of their sorrow, Peter had felt the call to fight. Not two weeks later he had dropped out of High school (temporarily) and was a willing participant of the United States Army.

So here he found himself, discarded by fate, fighting in a war that nobody wanted, and dying to protect the innocent. His once lively brown eyes, now dull from the sight of suffering and death, wandered over the open, and foreboding clearing set before him. At 6’2 he had always been the tallest player on his high school’s basketball team. What had been an advantage for him in another life, was a danger, and a liability now. His height made him a target. That, coupled with the fact that he was a troop of one, with a message for a General Staffen in the camp that was nestled in the middle of the cluster of  birch trees, which stood tall and resolute like a fortress, promising protection, made him uneasy. He ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, now damp with sweat, placed his green army issued helmet back atop his head, and faced reality along with the clearing. He knew that he had to start now if he wanted to reach his destination before dark. To say that the going was slow may qualify as the understatement of the year. Not only were the drifts deep, and the snow hardened and nearly impossible to plow through with merely your legs, but beneath the layers of snow lay a solid layer of ice, that made it impossible to keep a grip. Even though he tried for all he was worth, he could not keep himself from sliding. After forty-five minutes of back breaking work, and careful perseverance, he looked back only to find that he had made a mere ten yards progress. Disheartened, he turned back and continued to drudge through the snow when he was made aware of a noise. Turning to look once again, he saw a German soldier standing where he had just three quarters of an hour prior, studying the clearing before him. In an instant that was recorded before the stars were created, the eyes of the two enemies meet. Both held fear, and uncertainty, but in one, a mission came before sympathy or compassion. Peter turned just as the gunshot went off, and he felt the searing hot pain rip through his shoulder, then his abdomen. Wounded he fell to the snowy ground and lay there unconscious for hours. When he awoke, he was on the ground in the middle of the clump of birch trees where the camp was supposed to have been. He felt around for the message in his pocket, but found only blood from the bullet wound instead. Realizing that his own had taken him for dead, he tried to utter a cry of help, but found that his throat was to parched to speak, and his lips to chapped to form a word. He felt his blood along with his life seeping from his body. It was then that he realized he would soon be joining the piles of corpses that he had so often walked past in his duties. He would just be another casualty of this cruel war. He knew that the chances of his broken body being shipped to his home soil would be very slim, so he came to the conclusion that he was destined to rest in an unmarked mass grave, and remain nameless to all but God forever. His mother would hope that he was simply missing in action, and wait for a miracle. His little brother would beg his parent’s to bring his brother, his hero, back home, and his father would pray to the God that he lived for, for the safety of his son, and believe with his mother in the miracle of his homecoming. All for nothing. He lay there, prostrate on the frozen gazing at the cold sky through the thin branches of the birch trees above. He felt the wispy wind wailing it’s lonely empty tune across the plane and rustling through the barren trees. It was the very breath of the creator, and he had never truly felt it until now. The birds gathered on the branches above, bundled in their downy coat of feathers, and sung a bittersweet melody, their innocent faces raised to the expanse of the universe above. It was the very song of Heaven, but he had never truly heard it until now. He felt as though he were living for the first time as he lay there dying. He chuckled a dry laugh at the irony of it in an effort to hide his fear. He was scared. Not scared of dying, for he had been a Christian for as long as he could remember, and he knew where he was headed. No, he wasn’t scared of dying, he was scared of leaving. Leaving his life, leaving his family and friends, leaving his home. He had left so many things unsaid. The piercing pain of a thousand regrets washed over him like the freezing water off of the Atlantic Coast. He longed to tell his mother he loved her, and kiss her one last time, to tell his little brother to cherish the seemingly “insignificant” things, for those are what form the makings of a lifetime. He longed to look his father, his hero in the eye and tell him that he had fought the good fight, that he had finished his race, and that he had died well.

With every beat of his heart it pumped more and more blood from his body. As each breath slowed, so did the song that had made up his memories, as the dance called his life drew to a close, and he went to meet the one who made him and loved him, far before the cruel war of 1941.