poem from The
by Bruce Guernsey
The Lost Brigade
My Uncle Donald always knew the weather.
"Had to, during the war," he told me, "in Alaska,"
as we stood on the steps of our cabin in New Hampshire,
this strange, middle-aged man and I,
scanning the sky for Zeroes —
"I hear 'em. Doncha? Doncha, through the clouds?" —
but I heard nothing, saw only the lake,
the color of pewter before a storm, and my uncle
cupping his troubled brow with his hands
like a soldier with field glasses, his blue eyes blank
and far, far away.
He'd been a member, I learned years later,
of The Lost Brigade, the men shipped to the Arctic
in 1942 to guard the Aleutians, those stepping-stones
the ancient Asians crossed centuries ago,
and on Umnak Island Uncle Don gazed west for
toward Kiska, the island air base of the Japanese,
fifty miles away.
Taking turns in twelve-hour shifts,
he and the others of The Lost Brigade stared
across an open tundra
seemingly forever, watching for cracks, some small
in the steel-gray weld of sea and sky, blinded finally
by all they did not see, like the farmers out here in
after weeks of plowing the empty, late fall fields,
staring into their coffee, silent, numbed
by so much nothing. Forgotten on Umnak for nearly
Private Donald Heffernan went insane, had to be shipped
back to the States, and by the state,
"He saw God's foot on the treadle of the Loom,"
Melville says of Pip, the cabin-boy swept from the
into the sea, gone mad from that immensity, and my
a priest without beads, mumbling to himself, an old
in his dead parents' house on St. Pete Beach
where he's piled a fort of old papers
deep as snow on any tundra, and boarded up the
From there last week, hurricane season, they dragged
screaming about devils in the distance to a locked
at the Florida V.A., a room without windows.
Donald's had enough of sky
though he knows the weather, the gathering clouds
a squadron's thunder
so far away.
image created by Victoria Woollen-Danner