Memorial Day Weekend Two

There was an older man and woman who lived in the apartment below my grandfather when I was just a young boy. I can't remember the names but I can remember the smell of the kitchen. Something was always baking in their oven, at least it seemed like it to me. And often that something was cookies, and often enough I was treated to some with milk. The husband was a nice enough man, but didn't say too much, which didn't bother the taste of the cookies whatsoever. I remember my mother saying something about him being in World War I, and something about mustard gas. I wasn't quite sure about mustard gas but knew I didn’t like that particular condiment on my hot dogs, so I couldn't imagine it being any better in a different state. As for World War I, that was such a distant event: we only played WWII in those days. I know better now of course. No one should play at war, even Presidents or Prime Ministers. We should on these occasions remember the poetry of Siegfried Sassoon:

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

. . . .
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.