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Memento Belli
_My father had mementoes of the war;
_he kept them in a box above his clothes,
_where also hung a uniform he wore
_when he was someone in that time ago
_till trauma came, caused by the weight he bore
from carnage, chaos, unrelenting noise and such—
War was, and ever is, too goddamn bloody much.
_The cardboard box held captured German loot:
_a Walther and grenade (with guts removed).
_We kids would take them down, pretend to shoot
_the enemy, our bravery thus proved;
_but really, sometimes we just felt confused—
Were these like talismans to drive away Dad’s fear?
Why were these things so close to us as children there?
_In war, you grasp at stuff for souvenirs—
_morbid, macabre—like awful weapons. Did
_my father plan for us to sense, nay, hear
_the screams and shrieks of dying men, that (hid
_behind his howitzers) still resounded?
The stolen goods expressed what he would not yet say,
or he’d be thrown right back into that dreadful fray.
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Alison Jennings is a Seattle-based poet who worked as a journalist, accountant, and teacher before returning to her first love, poetry. Since then, she’s had over 100 poems published, including a mini-chapbook, in numerous places, such as Amethyst Review, Cathexis Northwest Press, Meat for Tea, Mslexia, Poetic Sun, Red Door, Sonic Boom, Stone Poetry, and The Raw Art Review. Her website: https://sites.google.com/view/airandfirepoet/home.
As a retired Army Officer, I had a sense of satisfaction and sense of accomplishment that is difficult to communicate to others. Such mementoes (among other thoughts) gave me comfort I survived, that I performed well under duress, and that I was involved in something bigger than I was. These thoughts are hard to express to friends and relatives. They take me back to a time in history in which I was a participant.
Your wondering became the inspiration for a poem I wrote today. Maybe it will help explain at least my thoughts on the subject.
MY WAR MEMENTOES
By Roy E. Peterson (June 24, 2024)
Why did I bring home some mementoes of the war?
That was a time of triumph while settling the score.
I felt since I survived, that I did something great.
The feelings that I have now are hard to relate.
I remember friends and our camaraderie.
The funny things they said and tricks they pulled on me–
Pop songs that played while we were eating in the mess;
The uniform I wore when I would have to dress.
We had highs and lows while we all fought together.
With my war emotions there is nothing better.
In war I played a part in our great history.
The feelings that I had I’ll put in poetry.
The guns in that illustration to the poem are:
1. A Walther P38 (standard sidearm for enlisted men and NCOs)
2. A Luger P08 (standard sidearm for officers)
3. A Walther PPK (standard sidearm for military police and specialists)
4. A Schmeissser machine-pistol (close-combat automatic weapon, comparable to the American Tommy gun or the British Sten gun).
At the bottom there is a bayonet and scabbard for the Mauser infantry rifle.
These war trophies were everywhere in the immediate postwar period. The only WW2 veteran I knew who didn’t have any was William Carlson, the editor of Iambs & Trochees. He served as a noncombatant ambulance driver and medic during the war. When I asked Bill why he didn’t bring back any, he said “I didn’t want souvenirs to remind me of what I had seen. I wanted to forget.”
This is a chilling poem on the horrors of war, that are often forgotten about. Old men in parliaments and houses of government find it all too easy to go to war for glory or wealth when it’s not their blood up for sacrifice.
Sometimes war is necessary but diplomacy should always try to win out before it truly is a necessity. Your father’s service was necessary to stop Hitler conquering all of Europe, and we owe our peaceful lives today to their sacrifices, the ones lost and survived.
When her career is finished, I think the author might look back and consider this poem one of her masterworks.
I like the echo on “Memento Mori” very much. That’s a great title to open with. The closing is very deft both in observation and execution. Seeing the captured items as spokesmen, as it were, is a fantastic observation.
They are the medals you award yourself. For bravery. For duty. For injury. For things not possible to communicate to those who’ve never seen it. And, in my eye, it should be said, sometimes a little bit of primal, not fully rational, “Fuck you,” or “Fuck you. You tried to kill me, but I won.”
It’s true that one identifies with one’s enemies soon enough. And even true what Oscar Wilde said, though he got it backwards: Let’s say: “Each man loves even those he has to kill.” So it’s also possible to keep a trophy as a kind of reminder, an “I’m sorry, man.”