Sitting in a Bunker

This was originally published in the Grunt magazine, 1971, San Francisco - distributed in Guam, Vietnam and Thailand.

SITTING IN A BUNKER

Sitting in a bunker on a windy, rainy night,
I stare into the darkness and wonder why we fight
the senseless wars that come and go and never seem to end;
putting bucks in bank accounts and killing our young men.

I’ve seen Spookies over Laos firing death into the trees,
adding countless names of men to the list killed overseas.
Flares have shown some fighting men the place where they may die,
but many pass without a chance to think or question why.

Darkness falls and hides the fear of all the jungle cries,
as every soldier searches for the men we all despise.
The stateside war and Vietnam are in the daily news,
while riotous protesters parade their violent views.

The youth of every nation is demanding equal time,
while America persecutes our warriors for their crime.
The soldier has to kill, so he does, and then at night
his mind recalls the pain and death he witnessed in the light.

The battles will continue, and the killing will go on,
for the only change that time creates is darkness into dawn.
The rain is falling harder now, and fog is moving in,
obscuring everything until the sun shines through again.

The forest claims the losses as the enemy's advance,
overtaking weaker souls without a second chance.
We give our starving neighbors our money and advice,
which they in turn proceed to use – but not to grow their rice.

While the honest American family struggles to survive,
we’re wasting time in Vietnam keeping the war alive.
For when the action’s over and all our men are lost,
we’ll look at all the figures and realize the cost

of staying in a worthless land of sorrow and despair
and coming home to ignorance where no one gives a care
for all the countless moments of solitude and fear
that every fighting soldier shared within a single year.

So now the shooting’s over and many men returned,
leaving paddies blown to pieces and village houses burned.
We helped the shell-shocked people ride out our costly war,
but having lost so many friends, did we really need the score?

And Democracy will keep its word and rear its head again,
while the MoneyMen manipulate us toward our tragic end.

© ’71, 2006 Karl Arthur King