The Cool Blue Blog

That’s The Way They Were Raised

Russ Vaughn, paratrooper-poet offers this essay, reprinted with his permission.

That’s The Way They Were Raised

While surfing through websites for information on my old unit, the 101^st Airborne Division, I ran across a quote by a reporter, who was embedded with the 101^st in Iraq during the invasion. In his tribute to the young troopers he served beside, he marveled at how they could fight Iraqi forces so ferociously through the night, then spend their days handing out food and medicine to Iraqi civilians. The reporter observed that Stephen Ambrose, historian and author of “Band of Brothers,” another tribute to the Screaming Eagles, but those of an earlier war, had this to say about American troops,

“When soldiers from any other army, even our allies, entered a town, the people hid in the cellars. When Americans came in, even into German towns, it meant smiles, chocolate bars and C-rations.”

The reporter followed that quote with two sentences of his own which I find truly moving and profoundly insightful,

“Ours has always been an army like no other, because our soldiers reflect a society unlike any other. They are pitiless when confronted by armed enemy fighters and yet full of compassion for civilians and even defeated enemies.”

Those words should be chiseled into granite on a prominently displayed memorial somewhere, because they speak a great truth, not just about our fighting men and women, but also of the nation and society that molded them.

As a former combat infantryman, I will wager that for every single occurrence of violence and mayhem reported from Iraq, there are hundreds of acts of kindness and generosity by American forces, which go unreported. And that’s fine because that’s as it should be. Their compassion shouldn’t be remarkable. They do it, quite simply, because that’s the way they were raised, and they don’t change just because they put on battledress uniforms and become proficient with deadly weapons.

I am so proud of those young Screaming Eagles serving in Iraq, and proud to be a part of that fine unit’s legacy. I’m proud, as well, of all the other young servicemen and women who are contributing to the effort to create peace and build a democracy in Iraq. But, Folks, I am most proud of being just one of you, a nation and a way of life, that creates such valiant yet kindhearted warriors. We should all be proud of what we’ve produced.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327 Parachute Infantry Regiment
101^st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Ancient Reverie

There is a story that has no words, a book without pages.
There is a place where it can be told, read. But it is not here, and it is not now.

There is a song that has no sound. So sweet that it can bring the warrior to tears.
There is a place where it can be sung, heard. But it is not here, and it is not now.

I saw you sitting in the garden behind our favorite church and the bells began to ring. It reminded me of that place and that time. You reminded me. You sitting in that place that has been Holy for countless millennia, and through all time and dynastic dreams.

A single leaf fell from the branch above your head, displaced by a single sparrow. It floated with the gentle breeze on the scented air gently, slowly until it crowned your head. And you didn't even see it, or know it. But it was there, perfectly placed.

I approached the gate to the garden. You looked up and saw me.

It was then that I first heard the song that had no sound.

It was then that you told me the story that had no words.

Gloria

There was a day not so long ago when he met her. He must have
been very young and full of life and love for they would play
innocently throughout the day. She guided is hands when he used his
crayons, molded his words when he spoke, guided his movement when he
walked.

There was a day after that when he noticed her in the way that
young men do. Her hair the color of summer wheat and her bearing
that of a falcon in flight. Her scent and her breasts and her hips.
She moved lightly on the solid ground. And when he was young, he
would make love to her and he would rape her. He would worship her
and ignore her. As he tried to make sense of his world, he would
ravage hers. There was a time when she simply left, without a word.
Not hiding, for she had nothing to fear; just absent from him. His
world collapsed then, but he didn't notice. Sometimes, he would
sense that something was missing, but then he would divert himself,
in one manner or another, intoxicants maybe or self-pity, hedonism,
and he forgot again.

There was a day not so long ago when he remembered the side of
her face in the moonlight. I forget now where he was at the time;
maybe the Cathedral of Notre Dame, or in the Alps at daybreak, or
walking through the woods in autumn, but he remembered her and
wondered what had become of her and when it was that she left.
Returning to his life, the thought and memory remained with him. He
remembered more about her as the days passed; the shadow of her
smile, her odor, her heat. And he felt cold. To his bones.

Yesterday she passed him when he was by the old church on the
square and she stopped before him. He was frozen to the spot. She
touched him and he died there.