I have respect for Joe, this GI from long ago. I know, I know. But it wont continue so. Joe was a pilot for the Marines, as I was soldier. He flew over head, my head. Our enemies head. Those of us on the ground always looked up. We looked up as we ducked, jumped to the ground. The fighter jets were gone sometimes before you heard them. Not like the bombers. You knew they were coming minutes before they arrived. Their sound pounding you into the ground. the ground that then bounced, jerked you up and down, like a coin on a barracks bed. But that is not what this story is about. Not about those memories, instead about a question. One I hesitate to ask, in deference to Joe. Joe I do not know, or so this story goes.

One day Joe’s jet was shot down. Flopped to the ground. Actually into a lake. Flopped like a dying fish. Like a deadly great white shark into the shallow water. Fallen, like an angel of war, rage, anger. But Joe did not die. He was saved. He says captured. I do too.

War is fought on orders. It is not orderly, but it is by order, by command. Many of these are standing orders. The things you are supposed to know, follow, do, when no commander is around. Many of these are common sense, so are commonly disregarded. Our defense would be the “traffic light” defense, “but no one does.” We are all law breakers, we law abiding citizens of cane. Solders in war are ordered not to surrender, but if they are captured they are to fight on. Joe couldn’t do much fighting. He was a pilot without wings, with broken arms, legs. You can guess what a plane crash does.

But now comes the odd thing. Odd to me, perhaps since I was enlisted, not an officer. Enlisted, even though I think of my “enlistment” as imprisonment for protesting the war. I was told that I was supposed to fight or escape. The reason for the escape was so that I could return to fight. I could return with information. Stuff such as, how well fed. What type of weapons. How dug in. Where were the guns. How fit were the soldiers. How many prisoners did they have. That type of thing. Stuff that might be of use in fighting an enemy. Stuff that the enemy would not want you to leave knowing. Now comes the odd thing. Joe was told he could go. Go, why no, said Joe. I will not go. I will stay. Stay this day. Stay that day. I will not go, no way. I intend to stay, said Joe.

I do not know why, but to this day still, Joe stays. Joe stays. We salute him still. Maybe he stayed so he could not kill. If so I salute Joe now.