Uncle Mike's Minefield

Uncle Mike’s Minefield, Korea 1953

We came upon boots and bones
Heels and toes together
As if at attention.
As if this Unknown Soldier,
Grown jaded of War,
Had wanted to sleep it off.

While Sergeant went for help,
I lit a Pall Mall and reached
For a small bone, a finger
Perhaps that resisted.
Pried it from frozen ground
Cleaned it with my bayonet.

As I cleared more mud away,
I discovered bits of rotting fabric
Rusted with blood,
An arm band, tattered and dirty
Bearing the Medic’s Red Cross
One of our own was he.

A second trove turned out to be
His wallet with Army ID,
A driver’s license from Minnesota,
Pictures of people in front of a
Sturdy, red-bricked house
And a letter I did not read.

How long would it be before
They learned that their son
Was no longer MIA, but KIA?
Their hope hopeless, prayers wasted?
I nodded at my skeleton
For, he was mine then.

Imagined him heeding screams for help
Stumbling and crashing down the hill
With no thought for mines.
Did he die instantly, or linger fatally
Wounded, calling Medic, Medic,
To himself?

I gazed over the valley
At the hills all covered
In an icy white-blue frost
Nothing stirring
A Christmas scene
In this killing field.

Why don’t we?
Wade across the valley to meet in the rising mist.
Share cigarettes, swap souvenirs, admire family
Photographs. Find a common language.

Why don’t we?
Walk away together, wherever our hearts take us
So that when the call to arms sounds on the battlefield,
There’s no one there to hear.

previously published in The Ogham Stone, 2016