9/11

[Comanche County]

Besides turning wrenches, bar brawls, and chasing questionable female acquaintances, I actually spend my quieter moments with the likes of Dylan (Thomas that is), Hardy, Sassoon, Rilke, Larkin, Wilde, Whitman, Frost and many others as well as the Galeleans.

 

Tonight on the anniversary of 9/11 I'm visiting the local hippie coffee house to lay some reality on the flower children at their bi-weekly poetry event. I've written probably hundreds, war type mostly...here's one I'll open with. I often go read my stuff, but I never share (publish) in a public forum. But I feel compelled tonight and I hope to set the tone before the "occupy-anti-socials-socialists-anarchists rejects with dread locks and million dollar trust funds" take the stage.

 

God Bless Freedom and those who sacrificed and kept it for us. Comments welcome.

 

Jay

 

 

 

 

Be Bold, Be Brief, Be Gone V4

 

 

In the summer of 2006,

when the sun would break over the water tower

on my morning runs at Camp Fallujah,

she would pass me,

with shimmering red hair

alternating its bounce

off the back of each shoulder blade.

Again one day she passed me, sort of

bruising my infantryman’s pride,

so not to be outrun,

I tried to catch her, but

the 90° degree 6:00 a.m. heat was

getting the best of me, and at her pace,

with my forced breathing giving me away,

she coolly glanced back

and casually picked up the pace.

I couldn’t let her beat me

and managed to hang on,

I got close enough to see,

the sweat soaking dark red

loose strands of her pony tail.

And realizing I was serious,

she gave another quick look,

and a little clever grin,

she kicked it up again,

we approached the HQ

where I hoped she’d stop, but

I was spent and

crossed my own imaginary finish line,

…doubled over,

…hands on my knees.

I lifted my head just in time, to see

that red hair, in a taunting

glide around the corner,

never slowing down.

 

After the New Year,

I transferred to Camp Ramadi,

they call it Ramudi,

There’s no paved roads, no drainage,

it’s the FOB that time forgot,

little sun for staff here in winter,

nothing to do except work,

no time to run,

and anyway,

the mud is everywhere

so I wade to my shift

every day and kick mud off

my boots at the entrance to the TOC,

clicking the days away.

And each morning I pass

a memorial poster,

left in the hall by the previous unit.

Three killed back in December,

a mustached Captain,

a giant of a Soldier,

and a female Marine

with a big friendly smile.

Only a few people smile here,

so I make sure to smile

back at her every morning.

 

In March, the roads began to dry,

there was pavement underneath

the inches of packed mud,

not really dry enough to run, but

I want to go for it anyway,

tired of pushing digits,

tired of TOC life and no action,

tired of not having the road.

So one early evening,

I slam my laptop

Sneak off to my room,

lace up my shoes

and I’m off…

loving the freedom and breeze I create,

even if the road is greased in mud.

I pass Trooper Gate without dropping,

and continue by the MWR,

around the motor pool,

collecting strange looks

as I occasionally almost wipe out.

I make it to the south end of Camp

the sun is falling around the water tower,

glowing the hills of 5-Kilo and

our bastioned lined perimeter

In bright hues of orange and red.

 

I slip hard, almost go down and stop…

…doubled over

…hands on my knees

the sun is casting its colors of…crimson…

…bouncing off her shoulders,

… I remember that grin

…taunting me to keep up,

and how …she glided…away.

 

I sprint back, straight through the Camp

releasing months of idle energy

straining to keep my balance,

cutting through the softball field,

mud splattering up my back.

I weave through the chow hall parking lot

and the line outside the PX,

I dart past the TOC security guard,

And go down the hall,

straight to the poster,

stopping, huffing for air…examining

her dimples,

her eyes,

how she challenges the camera.

I lean close and see loose tufts of red hair

escaping her Marine cover.

I had always looked at the smile…

I never noticed, the

name at the bottom,

Marine Major Megan McClung, KIA 06 DEC 06.

 

I stagger out

Apologizing for the mess

and slosh back to my room.

Exausted,

crashing on my cot,

and my thoughts drift off into dreams,

…of training,

…of running hard,

…of catching up

…to her one day.

 

 

 

In Memoriam, Major Megan Malia McClung, Killed in Action on the 6^th of December, 2006 in Ramadi, in the Al Anbar Provine of Iraq. She was an avid runner, tri-athlete, and organizer of the Marine Corps Marathon Forward in Iraq. I never met Maj McClung, but the poster still hung after we took over Camp Ramadi in January 2007. She was beautiful in the picture. As we were changing over with the departing unit, it was clear that she was indeed the type of personality that electrified a room. If we all leave memories like hers, our lives will have been a success. “Be Bold, Be Brief, Be Gone” is inscribed on her grave marker at Arlington National Cemetery which can be viewed online at: http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/mmmcclung.htm. A video Tribute to Megan can be viewed at: http://hotair.com/archives/2006/12/14/video-rip-maj-megan-mcclung/.

[shelbyluvv]

Semper Fi Brother!

 

That almost brought me to tears...

[DrMike]

Jay,

I am Michael McClung, Megan's father. I would like to discuss your poem via e-mail and ask you for any other stories/poems you have about my daughter. This poem is beautiful and will be added to our ever growing file.

 

Semper Fi,

 

Mike

[jpnjim]

Welcome to CC Mr McClung

Truly sorry this had to be the circumstance.

 

God Bless and thank you for your daughters service

 

RIP Megan :(

[jimoshel]

How can anyone really be gone when their memory stays with us?

Semper Fi.