CSotD: Seems like old times

Pat Bagley notes the plight of a soldier in a war with no direction and that calls upon no American to sacrifice except him.

The only thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. I'm really sorry, guys. Wish I had more to offer than "You're not the first."

In 1985 — before the story of the war had been co-opted by chickenhawks — I performed at a gathering of Vietnam vets and antiwar activists to mark the 10th anniversary of the fall of Saigon.

I played "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die Rag," to which the vets sang along happily, and the Australian song, "I Was Only 19," which, being pretty much unknown to US audiences, touched many of them deeply. (See below)

I also had this song on my play list but skipped over it in deference to several ARVN vets in the room. We should remember that it doesnt apply to all Afghans, either.

But it is a fair assessment of both situations, and it's a god damned shame to see it become relevant again. (And I mean "god damned" in the absolutely most literal sense.)

 

The pilot's playing poker in the cockpit of the plane

The casualties are rising like the dropping of the rain

And a mountain of machinery will fall before a man

When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

It's written in the ashes of the village towns we've burned

It's written in the empty beds of fathers unreturned

And the chocolate in the children's eyes will never understand

When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn

Morning has arrived you must be gone

And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls

Like old whores following tired armies

Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side

And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide

For the colors of a civil war are louder than command

When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Blow them from the forests and burn them from your sight

Tie their hands behind their backs and question through the night

But when the firing squad is ready they'll be spitting where they stand

At the white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn

Morning has arrived you must be gone

And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls

Like old whores following tired armies

The comic and the beauty queen are dancing on the stage

Raw recruits are lining up like coffins in a cage

Oh, we're fighting in a war we lost before the war began

We're the white boots marching in a yellow land

                          — Phil Ochs, 1968