“Picking Up Stan’s Body” was a story given to me by a Vietnam veteran in my Vietnam Veterans of America chapter. He was very hesitant to talk about his war experiences, as many veterans are. In this case, the man’s wife helped me get the main idea before he spoke to me. As you can see from the poem, he did not view himself as any sort of hero and did not want to be portrayed as one. The veterans all know I want to write their stories. Unfortunately, many of them die before I get the chance. And their stories die with them. 

Stan was a huge man,
like three men rolled into one,
so when we saw him there,
dead on the ground,
smoke coming out of 
his eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth
from phosphorous grenade fragments
smoldering in his flesh,
fingers missing, arm torn apart,
no one wanted to pick him up. 

Instead 
each of us carried 
another body or body parts,
always looking for dogtags,
which the men never wanted
to wear around their necks,
so we looked in their boots
and their pockets.
Sometimes we even left 
our guns on the ground,
something we should never do,
like walking naked through
a department store.

But we couldn’t leave anyone behind,
so we had to go back for Stan.

We thought three guys 
would be enough to carry him. 
As we lifted him part way up
trying to get a good hold on him, 
Stan moaned.

“Jesus fucking Christ! He’s fucking alive!
Didn’t you check for a fucking pulse?”

“Do I look like a fucking medic for Christ sake?”

“How can he fucking be alive?
His whole fucking head was smoking!”

“Just pick him the fuck up,
and get him up the fucking hill!”

It took the three of us
to get Stan’s body 
to the top of the hill
where he would be 
airlifted out
to safety. 

Years later,
Stan’s son 
would give a speech
and thank us all
for saving 
his father’s life.
He treated me like 
I was something special, 
but I’m no goddamn hero.