The Steel Hand Of Death and Other Poems
by Al Larson
The Steel Hand of Death
I've known the cold pain of fear
And felt the steel hand of death
That came into our very midst
To steal a friend's life giving breath
"Missing in Action", they said.
No chute was seen, no beeper heard
Those of us who knew him well
Know his fate with no further word
Early, in '66, there was Tom.
Over Hanoi, his 105 went down in flame
A "lucky" one, capture was his fate.
He's never seen the son that bears his name.
Later, it was my friend Don.
His chute was seen and beeper heard
"Missing in Action" his folks were told
Years later, they have no other word.
I'd worked and flown with Rich.
No better man has shared my time
A patriot, killed in action
A rising star, felled in his prime.
I always felt akin to Joe.
His smile, his ways, his love of life
Brought joy to all who lost
This friend, who dearly loved his wife.
And so you say, "You came , too?
Aren't you afraid your breath
Will be taken, as theirs,
By the steel hand of death?"
"Yes," I say, "I know the fear."
But that is not at all the key
No fear, no torture, no pain
Can ever place life over liberty!
The poem above was written in 1968 during the first week of my Vietnam tour.
I was pondering the question, "Is there anything worth dying for?"
The four men mentioned by name in this poem are Tom Browning (Class of 64, POW), Don Spoon (Class of 64, POW), Rich Edwards, my mentor at Craig AFB, and Joe Pirrocello, a fellow instructor at Craig AFB. Tom and Don survived their internment, and returned with honor.
The un-named friend in the first stanza is Bob Lodge, '64 . He represents the high price freedom demands of the youth of our nation.
Bob, Rich and Joe found their place in history on the Vietnam Memorial.
Read Bob Lodge's history, and Steve Ritchie's stories for more details on Bob's shoot down.
Read Don Spoon's story of his worst day ever.
Testi Ad Murem
"Testi Ad Murem"
The patch said,
"Balls to the Wall!"
I found the believers,
Etched in glass.
Dead.
The short poem above was written in 1986 after my first visit to the Vietnam Memorial. The motto is from the patch for my pilot training class, Class 66B at Vance AFB. Al McArtor and I designed the patch.
My Country's Call
Of those, to whom much is given,
Much shall be asked.
I have been given
Far more than I merit.
That my call should exceed
That of others
Is only just.
I have had more than others.
I answer my country's call,
Afraid, but with courage,
Sadly, but with faith,
That our cause is just.
Proudly, to find
That I am ready.
Willingly, to give
Whatever I must.
Ready, to stand between war
And my beloved land.
Prayerfully, that God may
Lend a helping hand.
The above was written during the second part of my Vietnam tour. I am eternally thankful that God did see me safely through my tour.
Sand Pebbles
The time passes, bit by bit,
Like sand passing pebble by pebble
Through the ageless hourglass of time.
Each pebble that falls
Subtracts from those remaining,
And adds to those already fallen.
What is it each adds to?
What is it each subtracts from?
How many pebbles have fallen?
And how much have they added to the others?
How many pebbles remain?
And how much will they add to the total?
And when all the pebbles have fallen,
And the adding ends,
What will be total?
And what will be the remainder?
What becomes of the power that moved the pebbles?
And what becomes of the pebbles themselves?
What becomes of the vacuum through which the pebbles fell?
And what purpose was there in the falling?
What made some pebbles so large,
And other pebbles so small?
What makes them all so small now?
And why has the rainbow faded from the pebbles,
And left them that dismal grey?
Was there something I could have done to stop the falling?
Could I have stopped the colors from fading?
If not I, could He
Have stopped the flow, and made fast the dyes?
Was it the size of the pebbles that mattered,
Or was it the color that mattered?
Or did the pebbles matter not,
As they matter not now.
I see the pebbles now,
Grey and fallen.
They no longer fall.
They no longer add nor subtract.
They no longer glitter or glisten.
They no longer make a sum,
Nor leave a remainder.
I see my hourglass.
And I see its time is done.
But I see not yet the meaning,
And I see not yet the cause.
Surely I am powerless to understand.
But who will tell me of this glass?
And who will tell you of yours?
Will He?
The above was written in the early 1970's as I thought about my own mortality. I added it to this page as we approached our 60th reunion in 2024, and it was very clear that as a class our hourglasses are nearing empty.
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