LZ Finch

by Giroldi

 

I see them on the hillside,
Amongst the scraggly brush,
Laden down with combat gear
And heavy, bulging packs.
They clasp their trusty rifles
As if they were best friends.
They're young Marines of Recon,
Preparing for a mission,
In the dust of L.Z. Finch.

They're sitting, kneeling, crouching,
In the muggy Asian heat.
Some are chatting calmly;
Some prefer to smoke.
Others seem reflective,
Or are, perhaps, at prayer.
But none disdain the danger,
As they play the waiting game,
In the dust of L.Z. Finch.

Throbbing beat of rotor blades
Cleaves through the sultry air,
And youthful eyes glance skyward
At the hovering helos' din.
I see the faces turn away
As choppers start descending.
Whirling blades whip up debris
That stings their flesh with flying grit,
And the dust of L.Z. Finch.

I see their youthful faces,
Each set with grim resolve
As they board the helicopters
That will fly them off to war.
I see the choppers slowly rise
And cannot help but wonder;
How many of those young Marines
May not return to wait again?
In the dust of L.Z. Finch.