war

In battles of no renown My fellows and I fell down,
And over the dead men roar The battles they lost before.
The thunderstruck flagstaffs fall,

Without warning, a hobbled old Afghan man comes around the corner, surprising the soldier guarding the door. The soldier yells, “Stop!” The old man inches forward on his cane.

This weekend I will be taking a journey into the heart of America and Americana with my grandfather to attend a D-Day commemoration at the Eisenhower Presidential Library.

Recently, I came across a photo on the web of prisoners in Guantánamo. You know the one: shot at close range through a chain-link fence, we see a line of detainees in orange jumpsuits—hooded, hands tied, bent over and broken. They are the first crop of prisoners from the new Global War on Terror.