Gordon W. Belling

THE PRICE OF JOHNNY’S FREEDOM

To the Vietnam war Johnny was sent, when he was a lad,
he was twenty years old that didn’t make, pollies all that sad.
It’s not some game he played nor did he live, in some stinking hole,
but like in all the wars some dearly paid, some men lost their soul.

At dawn one cloudless day on the airstrip, there at Nui Dat,
Johnny lined up again just near the place, where the big hercs sat.
He loaded on his gear and had it tied, tightly to the floor,
then waited for the time, that he could hear, mighty engines roar.

On the big freedom bird young Johnny sat, watching beer heads foam,
he’d been thinking two years since he had left, all his friends at home.
And he’d be back at work in a few days, or perhaps a week,
but didn’t know how changed he’d become, with his future bleak

The war had been so tough and it laid test, to his strongest wit,
and after he’d been home Johnny had found, that he didn’t fit.
He had stories to tell, excitement flowed, no one wished to hear:
“do not talk like that here” was often said, softly in his ear.

Johnnies stories to tell are now all lost, bottled up inside.
He will not show his angst because of fear, that he’d lose his pride.
He does his best to cope and says that he, doesn’t want to bore,
but if only they’d listened, when he’d come home, from the war.