SEEN THE MOVIE
BY LEE CHILCOTE
When I was eight or nine
I asked my father if he’d killed anyone.
He shook his head.
“We didn’t see much action,” he said
as if Vietnam were just a long walk
in the jungle.
I pictured men in camouflage playing poker
and flipping through girlie mags,
waiting for the enemy.
Did you ever get shot?
Dad thought a minute.
“There was one time.
I was pinned against a tree.
There was a guy shooting at me
and I couldn’t go anywhere.”
My father, who had volunteered
and become a platoon captain at 24,
had five or six stories like that.
So what happened? I asked.
“He ran out of bullets.”
On Saturday nights, he watched war movies on TV,
the bottles from a six-pack
stacking up in the sink.
He dozed in the recliner,
glassy-eyed and listless.
We crawled over him as the credits rolled.
Is that what it was like, Dad?
“Not really,” he said.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
Page 2! 6