Posted on 05/29/2017 10:18:06 AM PDT by mairdie
Poetry of my father, Major Bradley Van Deusen, 1905-1955, buried in Ft. Sam Houston Military Cemetery, San Antonio TX, among an almost endless field of monuments. Appropriate to Memorial Day.
He said in one of his letters, trying to get mother back, that he'd burned his manuscripts and the future could do without him. I've made it a personal mission to make sure that his writing didn't completely disappear.
www.iment.com/maida/family/father www.iment.com/maida/family/father/oldsoldiersdrums/frontcover.htm
ZERO HOUR
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey clad men out beyond the wire
Grey fields in the star-shells glow.
The barrage is a pounding symphony
That ears attuned cannot hear.
Theres something flicking the parapet
Theres something above you fear!
Not fear of stopping one above,
Or fear for the man beside.
Theres something flicking the parapet
Theres a fear you cannot hide.
Stand by! The rifle is cool in your hand
And your heart pounds hard and quick.
Theres something flicking the parapet
Number Three of the squad is sick.
The rifle hurts the palm of your hand
Like gripping a stiff, wire brush
Theres something flicking the parapet
Walk slow through the wire, then rush!
The whistle! The ladders! Up over the edge!
And your legs seem stiff and sore.
Theres something flicking the parapet
Number Three is sick no more!
Grey stars agleam in a blank, dead sky
Grey guns agrowl below.
Grey faces turned to the glowing stars
Where men lie dead in a row.
**********
OLD SOLDIERS DRUMS
Im just too old for drilling
I cant hike anymore;
So Im bound for the soldiers graveyard
Behind an office door.
They sing - Old soldiers never die.
We dont; we live on crumbs -
The shrilling, splendid bugles
An the thunder of the drums!
I wont do Guard in a snowstorm
An I wont hafta go an fire;
Its just messin around an office
An waiting to retire.
Approved per First Endorsement ...
An through the window comes
The music of a Guard mount
An the cadenced, throbbin drums!
Twenty-three and a butt in the Doughboys;
Why, Ive hiked a million miles!
But they said my age couldnt stand it
An they detailed me to the files!
This work is nice for some men
Who can take it as it comes.
But you know their hearts aint achin
For the pullin, poundin drums!
D.S. 1/4C. an a non-combatant!
When theres guys thad give their life
To piddle around an office
An go home at night to the wife.
But Ill get back to formation;
Theres a day that always comes:
An Ill ride on a painted cassion
With the muffled, sobbin drums!
**********
THE CONVENT OF THE GUNS
Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead
Our polished skin is marred
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt,
Dented, cut and scarred.
Our day is done!
But once -
Our open mouths blazed death’s caress
Our tongues with steel were tipped!
Ah! bitter spinsters were we then
As we slashed and cut and ripped.
Our youth was filled with lovers,
All laughing, joyouts boys
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty,
Their latest, deadly toys.
Then clean and fresh and polished
We went forth with the Dead.
The living, lovely, happy lads
Whose last touch dyed us red.
Then supplanted like all harlots
By the newer, fresher one
We turned to rest and quiet
As our kind has always done.
With a printed tag about our throats
To inform our lovers’ sons.
We’re an Ordnance Exhibition
The Convent of Guns.
**********
TAPS
In a quiet hospital ward an old soldier is dying.
A young hospital orderly sits by his side. As the
dying man gasps a few words the notes of Taps float
in the open window.
“Fades the light ... and afar ... goeth day, cometh night ...”
“Yes, it’s almost finished ... my hitch is done
I’ve done my duty ... I’ve known some friends.
It was well worthwhile ... I’ve no regrets.
I hate to leave the Army but my discharges comes
‘From Higher Authority’ than my own C. O.
Seven hash marks. Son: will you show as much?
And all my characters were ‘Excellent’!
“And a star ... guideth all ...”
“I had my star, too, not in cash
But the flaunting of a bit of color at sunset
I ain’t talked about it much, a man don’t talk
About the things he feels. I’ve loved it though ...
“Leadeth all ... to ... their ... rest.”
“Adios, Kid! I’m done ... one thing though ...
Tell that recruit in my squadroom to strai ...
Ah-h-h-h!”
The bugler lights a cigarette and throws away the match.
**********
THE PAINTED LADY
I sing my song with a painted mouth
And staccato, blazing breath;
The Jezebel of the Armies,
The Painted Lady of Death!
Born in the flow of the molten steel,
Baptised in flaming oil,
Cursed by the world ere I saw the light
And went forth to my toil;
Pride of my many lovers
My deep-voiced, fighting men.
Caressed as my kisses took their toll
From my steel ringed, concrete den:
Faithless and lovely always
Denying my love in his need,
Giving myself to the strongest hand
While my cast off lovers bleed.
My curious task is ended,
And couched on a wooden bed
I lie and gaze on the passing throng
And muse on my lovers - dead.
I sing my song with a painted mouth
And staccato, blazing breath:
The Jezebel of the Armies,
The Painted Lady of Death!
**********
INCIDENT
Hey, Doc’! Pardon, Sir, I meant Major.
They say the Kid was hurt last night.
You know, my Bud’, the battler?
Slim, blonde, puts out a fight?
I heard the Corpsmen talkin’
They said the Kid was bad.
Jesus, Sir! You’d tell a fella -
The Kid’s all I ever had!
He’s dead! Never knew what hit him?
A wreck? Why, Sir, the Major’s wrong!
The Kid came in last evenin’
An’ Gawd knows that ain’t long!
An’ just because my leg is broke
He wuz kiddin’ me to death ...
To ... death ... my buddy’s dead then ...
It kinda takes my breath.
Where is he, Doc’? The Post Morgue?
That little house of stone?
Get me outa here, Sir, I’m goin’
The Kid’s in there alone!
Sure I know my leg is busted
But, Hell, Man, I can crawl!
I don’t want nobody with me
I can guide along the wall!
Take that ‘hypo’ outa here, Sergeant!
Why ... Major ... that ain’t fair ...
I ran with the Kid a week ago.
Had him shapin’ pretty fair.
This goddam morphine gets me ...
Kid! Lay off that dame in red!
You can’t mix dames and battlin’
An’ ya can’t win fights in bed!
Roll in-under that left a’ his
Then pivot up an’ hook!
Don’t let’m box but fight him!
This guy fights by the book!
I’m gettin’ punch drunk - damn this morphine -
It starts buzzin’ in my head!
Hey, Kid! Kid! Why sparrin’ pardner,
They told me you was dead!
Will you be at Ft. Sam today? I will be going this afternoon to visit with my father who served in Korea. What plot is your father in? I can drop off a flag on your behalf.
Thanks for posting.
No. I’m in the Boston area and don’t fly.
Van Deusen, Bradley T, b. 11/05/1905, d. 09/23/1955, MAJ 157 INF 45TH INF DIV, Plot: A-I 176, bur. 09/28/1955, *
I visited once while I was at a meeting in Austin. Walked forever but the office was closed and I couldn’t find his grave. Drove back the next day and found it. Sat there and told him everything he’d missed over the years and was overwhelmed by the desire to get an apartment in one of the buildings overlooking the cemetery.
It would mean a lot if you could put a flag there. He loved this country so much.
Gratefully, Mary
Thank you, sincerely.
Father’s cavalry post was down near the statue of the Progression of Time by Lorado Taft, at the end of the Midway. The college newspaper had an article about the etiquette of wearing your spurs to dances. Still have a photo of him in a line of horsemen, all holding their guns up.
http://www.iment.com/maida/family/father/images/index.htm
Was raised on 88th and Clyde, south side Republican, too, and went to U of C myself. Had Humanities classes in the same temporary building where mother met father.
********
Mother met father in the shadow of time
Cast by permanent stones of cathedral and bells.
The building they met in was wood, thin and cheap.
I know this because I walked in that place
Thirty years from a soldier’s chance meeting with fate.
So, I guess, in some sense, I’m a child of them all
Of mother, of father, of the Humanities hall.
She was a journalist trying to find
In the day’s small events
Some explaining of why
She was her,
Who she was,
A girl in the prime
Of her green salad days
Seen through sea-green young eyes.
He was a poet explaining himself
In the words of a soldier
To any and all
Who could hear with deaf ears
What it was to be young
To be strong and alive
And in love with a lady
Who saw through your eyes.
It is great that you have been able to retrieve this written legacy of your father. I do a lot of work in family history. My people were talkers, not writers. Even as a kid, I enjoyed hearing the old-timers talk about old times. Of course as a kid it never occurred to me to write any of it down, and much of what I do remember is only vague. I hope to remedy that in regard to the people of my parents’ generation. Some of them realized the importance of their stories and contributed to local historical publications. My father died a month ago. One if the things I miss, and will always miss, are our conversations and his stories.
Just remember that it’s your obligation to do for the next generation what they couldn’t do for us. YOU have to write down YOUR stories. You have to be videotaped or audiotaped reciting whatever memories you have, even if you get the stories somewhat wrong, they’re better than the stories not existing at all. Even if it takes days and tapes, just keep recording. Then find someone to transcribe them and get them up on the web so that they get archived by google and hope and pray that somehow they survive until technology guarantees they survive. Spell the names. Remember the people. Keep them alive.
Another thing that helps are the newspaper subscription services. I can tell you hair-raising stories of my father’s father because he was written about constantly and I spent weeks scouring the newspapers to collect every story about his gunfight at the bottom of the silver mine and the freezing in the Alaska mining camps, and his description of the Nevada birds. His phone number was 7.
I was told by my mother’s mother that her brother drowned. I found the newspaper story of how he went swimming in the St. Louis river and was chased by a gang of boys and identified by his mother. Newspaper subscription services! You just have to keep trying every possible combination of misspellings.
And ebay. I found my family history on ebay. I even found a photo of my husband as a Quiz Kid there. Newspaper photo services are selling their originals. I bought a picture of my husband’s father standing by his jewelry store window with a bullet hole in it.
And if your kids would lose it and the information be lost forever, then put it on the Internet.
I made a movie about a famous computer scientist who talked about the future. You do everything at the best you can do it, better than can be handled today, and let the people of the future pull the information out of it then.
VIDEOTAPE. WRITE. KEEP THE PEOPLE YOU REMEMBER ALIVE.
Best, Mary
And I am so deeply sorry about your father. Each individual is so precious. You bash your head into the wall for every memory lost. Write down NOW what it seems that you’ll never forget. Because you will. And he MUST be remembered. I hope that I passed him once on the street and that we shared a smile. Chicago was like that.
Thanks for the tips. I probably wouldn’t have thought of some of these. I am a very good internet researcher and I have found a lot of information just poking around there. For example — I found of record of a small coal mining operation my grandfather ran until he got wiped out by the depression. I found the 1940 record of my paternal great-grandmother in a mental institution. This was just a year or so ago. No one in the family ever talked about that. When I asked my dad, all he said was, “she had her difficulties.” I also found the copyright record of a song my Uncle George wrote. He was always a creative type. He wrote songs. He invented things. None of it actually went anywhere, but he did it anyway. At the luncheon after my father’s funeral, I asked my cousin if she remembered the song her father had written. She mentioned the title of another song, which was new to me. I told her the one I remembered, which she had kind of forgotten. In the course of our short conversation some other things came up. Uncle George was with us there in our memories.
I do what I call deep genealogy. I will find an ancestor and try to find every descendant. I have fifth and sixth cousins in my family tree. They are people I have never met and will never meet. I have found some interesting people, some interesting stories, along the way. Since a lot of the work I am doing has not, to my knowledge, been done before, I am preserving their lives and stories and memories. Many times I will stop and think about a person and it strikes me that I might be the only person in the world at that moment who is reflecting on this life. I say a prayer for him or her. In the Orthodox Christian faith, our memorial service concludes with, “and may his/her memory be eternal.” So maybe I am playing some role in that.
My father lived in the St. Louis area, but if you had run into him there, you would have exchanged smiles. If you had started a conversation, you would have been there for a while. A couple of years ago, when he was in rehab after a surgery, I thought he could use some pastoral care. His church in a neighboring town had declined so much that it could no longer afford a minister. A retired minister would come to hold Sunday services. So I called the minister from the town he was in and asked her to call on him. She did. She told me later that she thought it would be an ordinary visit — a little chatting, a prayer. She said before she knew it, two hours had passed. When my father’s church finally closed, he started attending this pastor’s church. He became very close with her and that community. Their kindness to me after dad’s passing was overwhelming.
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