NATIVE AMERICAN, 1941
For a while they called me, "Rain-In--Face," for my
sleeping soundly in a rain on an Army truck's steel bed,
not knowing my reason, they also called me, "Nuts!"
Snakes were motive enough, populating the woods
of every square mile, ready to share choice poisons.
We are in the Carolinas back and forth across the state line,
on "Maneuvers," in cold November of Forty One, a
time of inexperienced and incompetent officers
attempting to train National Guardsmen, draftees,
and a sprinkling of WWI veterans drifting back in.
A sorry lot of politically appointed generals and colonels
commanding sloppy troops in a mix of men with
varying degrees of learning and intelligence, bent
on serving a required year to go home, their child-like
fantasy only weeks before Japan hits Pearl Harbor.
During the Maneuvers' Phase One, we learn to
protect self, after deaths from foolish causes, such
as tanks running over ground sleepers, and
big machinery driven wildly by beginners,
making all innovators over-night survivors.
So, Private Rain-In-Face lived to Pearl Harbor Day
and beyond, outlasting cavalier decisions, and
stupid mistakes, common behavior when man is
not manly, believing that conduct and decisions of
others insures his personal safety and well being.