Featured Poet Andy Ladak

I’m OK

 You needn’t worry, I’m OK.

 I really am. I’m fine.

 It’s very kind of you to ask,

 but no, I don’t have nightmares anymore.

 No restless nights, no fears.

 Not like before.

 And as I sometimes like to say,

 I haven’t had to kill in years.

 But jokes aside, I’m fine,

 and I don’t mind if people ask

 about the war and all the rest.

 It’s been a while, after all,

 and I suspect, to look at me, you’d never guess

 the things I’ve done and what I’ve been,

 and still might be.

 You cannot see that part of me.

 You can’t detect the things I’ve kept behind the wall—

 the images, the darkness,

 or the ache that lies within.

 They can’t be seen. You can’t look in.

 Unless you’re looking through my eyes.

 But even then you might not tell,

 because we baby killers hide it well.

 They used to call me that, you know.

 The kids that marched for Uncle Ho.

 They chanted “Stop the draft!” and “We won’t go!”

 and sang of love and peace for all—

 just not for me.

 Oh, no. They hated me.

 So much that some would spit at me.

 Because, you see, I had the gall

 to be alive when I returned.

 Because I didn’t feel ashamed,

 and wore my uniform with pride,

 That’s when I learned it might be best

 to keep it all inside.

 Oh sure, it’s true, there are some things I won’t forget,

 some things I’ve known and done

 that you have not, I bet.

 And, more than likely, never will.

 Like what, you ask? Well, let me see—

 I’ve been to some exotic spots, for one,

 and seen the children cry.

 I also gained some useful skills,

 and got to practice them a lot.

 I know the sounds that bullets make

 when they go by.

 I’ve felt the ground beneath me shake.

 And there were times I was afraid. But then again,

 there were some times when I was brave.

 For what it’s worth, I even prayed—back then.

 More often, though, I swore and cursed

 and saw men die,

 I carried them and buried them.

 And once or twice I dug up graves

 (don’t ask; you wouldn’t understand)

 though even that was not the worst…

 Ah, but that’s enough.

 I see I’m going on too long with all this stuff—

 much longer than I planned—

 and I’m afraid that you might think there’s something wrong,

 and try to think of some excuse,

 without appearing impolite,

 to slip away.

 But that’s all right. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.

 Besides, I really ought to go.

 You needn’t worry, anyhow.

 Those things all happened long ago,

 and I’m OK.

 At least for now.

In 1969, Andy graduated with a degree in commercial art – and with an ROTC commission as an infantry second lieutenant. Airborne school, Ranger school and jungle school followed. Then, in ‘70, he went to war and served as an infantry platoon leader in Vietnam. Andy got through it, came home, and got on with his life, which included graduate school, work, and marriage. He also spent about 12 years in an Army Reserve Special Forces unit, finally leaving in ‘83 as a Captain.

His military and wartime experience, however, continued to haunt him – not in a negative or traumatic way, but in a bittersweet way. One day in 1994, Andy received a call from one of the men who had served under him in ‘Nam and who had undertaken a near-hopeless task of trying to locate some of the men he had fought with almost 25 years earlier. That wonderful, entirely unexpected phone call led to a series of reunions with an ever-larger circle of soldiers from Andy’s rifle company. The rekindling of camaraderie forged under fire, the sharing and comparing of hazy memories, and the mourning of dead comrades have also spurred him to try his hand at poetry to try to express some of the feelings and emotions inspired by war.

Andy is retired now, is as busy as ever. Among other things, including wife-assigned missions, he’s teaching English at a local college, which he enjoys tremendously. You can contact him by e-mail here.