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GONZO STATION, Gulf of Oman, Northern Zone, 1980
It had something to do with American hostages in Iran was all I knew.
Some political complication that required a showing of the flag.
But Iran had been our ally? I’d seen their sailors train at our base,
And their uniforms looked even nicer than ours.
Now they were the enemy? OK. I don’t ask questions.
It hadn’t been my habit to think above my pay grade,
Or grasp beyond the sphere of parochial concerns.
I was there to serve my country. “Ask not…” and all that nonsense.
Nor had I questioned the tenure of Ferdinand Marcos,
With his beautiful island nation under martial law,
His wife holding all their shoes hostage.
Like the Shah, I’d been told he was one of the good guys.
It was a cold war.
I hadn’t yet questioned a lot of things.
I was there to serve my country,
Not a common motivation in the post-Vietnam disco era,
When civilians didn’t thank you for your service,
But rather branded you a loser
For giving up your freedom in order to take orders from others.
But that’s why it’s called the service, duh!
Thank you, America. Thank you all to hell.
Well, during our time on Gonzo Station,
Records were set for time underway.
Kelly’s wife divorced him.
Thompson’s had a kid that wasn’t his.
Jimmy Liquor lived up to his name
And was ordered into drydock, just like so many others.
Gypsy Joe Pilotti died of an overdose.
Airman Dillon was sentenced to life for dealing.
Operation Eagle Claw ended up
With Desert One a total cluster f*ck.
I had the feeling things weren’t on the level.
I felt I’d earned the right to ask questions and seek answers.
So, my Iliad was ended, and my Odyssey began.
Copyright ©
Michael Kalavik
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