Specialist Hugh Martin, US Army National Guard

US Army National Guard Specialist Hugh Martin

Inspired after attending a baseball game shortly after I returned home, this poem attempts to interrogate how memories of a war experience present themselves in popular and seemingly innocuous public civilian spaces on the "homefront." Most veterans know that feeling--sometimes complicated, sometimes not, depending on the individual--of being asked to stand or wave or acknowledge yourself during a general tribute to veterans at public events. In this poem, the speaker tries to think both about the need for, and absurdity of, this type of recognition. It also tries to interrogate that do-all, everyday word applied to the work of military members: Service. While I'm not sure the poem offers anything specific as far as whether or not these public acknowledgments help or benefit veterans, I do know that it tries to capture the deep ambivalence I felt, and still feel, about my "service" in a war which—like many wars--hardly affected most of the American public.

-Specialist Hugh Martin, Army National Guard,19 Kilo (Armor Crewman)

Service

Bright with light, the flag

ripples on the Jumbotron

as they ask those who’ve served

to stand.

Stand to be honored.

Stand for us to show our appreciation.

Please, stand.

Come on, stand, my friend Sal says.

So I stand with other men who stand

in ball caps & button-up jerseys

in the many sections & rows.

Some fans, holding plastic trays of nachos

& cardboard carriers with jumbo Cokes,

move to their seats quickly,

hunching, embarrassed, not wanting

to take credit for serving

from those who did, from those who stand.

Some stand still & just salute

the digitized wind-whipped flag.

Some with hands in their pockets

twist to see others in the park

who also stand.

In the service

I always stood when officers

entered a room.

In the service

I served more than thirty days in a combat zone

which qualified me to wear

the combat patch.

After the service, they always asked

where’d you serve.

The Sandbox?

The Stan?

The Storm?

In the service

I often serviced my weapon.

I served boiled carrots on Kitchen Patrol

& some mornings I served

by stirring shit to make it

burn better.

I served

by closing my eyes

during IED steel & smoke.

I served

by running through a marsh

into a home through a doorway

of blue linen hanging

like a piece of laundry—inside

I served

by opening each drawer,

each cabinet, looking for wires

& weapons while women screamed in a room

where we’d put them with the children

away from the men

we’d put in another room

to be watched while we searched.

I served

by handing out peppermint candies

to children in villages

as fathers & mothers stood in doorways

not speaking, even though if they did

we’d never know what they were saying.

I served

standing on dirt streets,

pacing through alleys & avenues

with thumb on the safety

past furious dogs & children

who’d wave or run

even as I, sometimes, just stood

doing nothing but waving

with my left hand

in a constant light,

that same

sunlight that makes this little

blonde-haired girl glow

as she holds a microphone

with two hands at home plate

while the entire stadium now stands

then everyone, suddenly,

goes silent to hear her sing.

originally appeared in In Country (BOA Editions, Ltd., 2018)