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June, 2006 Victory Avenue One, April.
First stop, Fort Niagara—close to home.
A vestige of the French and Indian war,
Where, until recently, tourists viewed quaint battlements of dirt and stone.
On to North Atlantic’s nauseating waves,
tracing, in reverse, the voyage of ancestors, unknown.
I pray, worried about, Mom, Ralph, and Anna Mae.
Land Belfast. Sojourn in Colrhine—
cute girls, Blarney Stone.
Six, June.
Mixed emotions in South Hampton, as
the others left, in the first wave.
Arriving a week later—replacement cogs.
Not daring to show it, but afraid.
The Fighting 29th, Stonewallers,
Company L, code name Lagoon.
Thirteen, July.
Most of the night surrounded in fight.
Hundred and eight of our guys dead,
For a five-acre orchard, a few hundred yards closer to
St Lô, Perey, St Germain, Vire…
Right next to me,
Lieutenant Morehouse—dead.
“Why not me” I pray.
Twelve, September.
Laying communication lines within miles of Brest,
When that damn shell burst, somewhere,
Somehow finding, shattering, my right thigh.
Lying in the mud, waiting all night.
Luckier than the others.
I’ll pray for them each night.
Another world: Bristol, Purple ribbon,
South Atlantic voyage,
slowly, finally
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