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—
(For G.F. Gillespie, August 25, 1918 – March 10, 2010)
I remember your stories of the war.
I would ask every year
for you to tell me about your squad
trapped behind German lines,
all of you so tired, so hungry.
You commandeered a farmer’s house,
demanded his family feed your men.
In broken English, he explained
he was a poor cattleman
without a cow, and his wife,
a gardener with no garden.
And you refused to accept that.
In perfect English you told him,
“I know you have food and you must share.”
Until, finally, the farmer acquiesced,
and uncovered potatoes in the basement
and wine.
“But I didn’t drink,” you said,
but your men did.
Satiated and fed,
you led your squad onward
into the summer of 1945
until Victory in Europe Day.
The men of your generation are almost gone.
Today you would be 99.
(Sgt. Gillespie, born in Camden, Arkansas, was named General, after his father, and his father.)
Previously published in the Sandyland Chronicles
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