Notes About The Poem
This narrative is a tribute to the specialized soldiers of the Vietnam War, capturing the stark physical realities and the heavy psychological burdens of the Tunnel Rats.
Beneath the Roots
Beneath the roots of rubber trees, where jungle shadows lie,
A quiet, suffocating world shuts out the summer sky.
Above, the war is loud and fierce, with metal rain and smoke,
But down below the trampled grass, a darker terror spoke.
The Viet Cong had carved a maze, three levels deep in clay,
A secret town of dirt and dark to keep the world at bay.
To follow where the shadows hid and meet a hidden foe,
A few young men would step aside, and volunteer to go.
They did not choose the heavy-set, the giants, or the tall,
But found the slightest, smallest boys to fit the narrow wall.
Just five-foot-five and under, with a chest of steady breath,
They needed quiet, normal guys to walk nose-to-nose with death.
It took a mind of iron will, a cold and focused heart,
To crawl inside a pitch-black tomb and watch the darkness part.
A boy who learned to trust his ears when eyes were rendered blind,
Who left his youth upon the grass, and peace of mind behind.
They stripped away their heavy gear, the helmets, and the steel,
And went down in their denim shorts, where every touch was real.
They slid into the narrow shafts, a pistol in their hand,
To feel their way through freezing mud inside an alien land.
A flashlight taped with filtered red to guide the crawling slow,
Where every single inch of earth concealed a waiting foe.
A tripwire stretched across the dark could spark a sudden blast,
Or drop a swarm of fire ants to make a breath the last.
In U-bend curves and choke-point holes, another boy would wait,
With shaking hands and rusted knives to seal a soldier’s fate.
The air was thick with rot and clay, too thin to cool the chest,
Where vipers hung from ceiling roots above a human nest.
The scorpions and the centipedes would crawl across their skin,
While smoke and gas from pistol fire filled every inch within.
A string tied tight around his boot, his only link to life—
A gentle tug to signal peace, a frantic jerk for strife.
The war moved on, the tunnels fell, the jungle took the clay,
But boys who crawled within the dirt could never walk away.
The silence of the midnight hour still echoes with the dread
Of heavy air and tight-knit walls that close around the head.
A closing door, a crowded room, a sudden flash of light,
Can drag a graying grandfather back to that tunnel night.
They brought the shadows home with them, locked deep inside the brain,
Where passing years and family smiles can never dull the pain.
The smallest men who fought the war beneath the jungle track,
Left pieces of their souls below, and never quite came back.
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