Category Archives: Authors

Know them

Know them

Know them as tears fill their eyes at the sight of a child while memories repeat a vision of  dead, militated, burnt children cast beside the road to Baghdad.

Know them as they smile while talking about their best friend dying.

Know them as you discover they sleep on the floor and run nightly patrols.

Know them as a slight disagreement explodes into a killing rage and the vet is stepping backwards seeking his knives and guns.

Know them as they get and lose as many different jobs as they have years separated from the war.

Know them as they condemn themselves for the smallest mistake because in their world a mistake will  kill someone.

Know them as they display anti-social and addictive behavior.

Know them as they struggle with borderline personality disorders and have extreme difficulties with interpersonal relationships.

Know them who suffer the pain as they pronounce that others deserve veterans benefits more than they do.

Know them as you ask when they fought a major battle and they say, “Last night.”

Know them as they walk in the woods while keeping a proper spacing between people they are with and constantly registering the next closest spot for cover and concealment.

Know them as they drive white knuckled, holding back the urge to “SHOUT,SHOW,AND SHOOT” at the driver who gets too close on the highway and fight the desire to swerve away from anything that might contain an IED

Know them as they travel across six states to help a friend but they would not cross the street to save their own ass.

Know them as they will not come to you for help. They are to proud.

Know them as you would your own. Provide for them for the rest of their lives the mental, medical and social tools  that reflect our ability to honor the veteran.

Know them.

Poem by Tom Skiens, with shout, show and shoot line by two tour
Afghanistan vet James Dowmen

The Last War

When the last soldier falls
In the very last war,
That’s where you will
Find them gathered;
On the battlefield of
The final triumph.

Their restless souls
Will claim lasting rest
Peacefully waiting
Upon the earth
Where once they lived
And died.

No more sorrow…
No more broken hearts.
A river of souls as one
In victorious song;
As the final bugle calls
When the last soldier falls.
When the last soldier falls.

Doc Rich R

Ode to new guy

Thin like me,
red hair, freckled,
gap between front teeth,
a Midwesterner,
forgot where.

A replacement,
you were a F.N.G.
Made us laugh,
a clown, sad
behind your mask.
Never got to know you.

Flaked out
even on easy missions.
I treated you
as a non-person,
a pariah to be shunned.

You talked too loud,
made too much noise.
Couldn’t respond
to my basic
combat commands,
fired too much ammo.

We carried you
on a poncho
for 2,000 meters,
crossing a stream,
up a hill.
Dead weight.

F.N.G.: fucking new guy

Meet Jim Dumb

It’s early morning in dry season. Third squad sits cross legged on a carpet of bamboo leaves. We light small chunks of C-4, boil water in canteen cups, mix in powdered coffee, drink and savor the bitter brew. We make jokes, toss C-ration cigarettes to our Kit Carson Scout. His name is Diem Diem but we call him Jim Dumb. Seventeen, thin and dark complected, on patrol our former enemy walks third in line. “Beau coup NVA,” he says, spotting week old enemy foot prints. But we like this black haired, dark-skinned young man and treat him with respect.

D’wee was better. On point he walked fast and signaled danger by flicking his wrist. He knew the jungle’s dark secrets, and kept us safe. But D’wee is dead and now there’s Jim, who smokes and smiles and wouldn’t know a bunker complex from a ’55 Chevy.

Jim Dumb drops the slender five butt packets into a clear plastic bag filled with Newport Menthols, Winston Filter Tips, No Filter Camels, Lucky Strikes, and green US Army matchbooks whose small print shouts “Close cover before striking.” He crinkles the bag shut, drops it into his pack, plucks the cigarette behind his ear, stuffs it into his mouth, lights it, takes a long drag, spews out smoke, strokes his hairless chin, looks at me. Continue reading Meet Jim Dumb

Interview on Reader Views

Today, Tyler R. Tichelaar of Reader Views is pleased to interview Victor R. Volkman, Marc Levy, Tom Skiens and Tony Swindell who are here to talk about the new book “More than a Memory: Reflections of Viet Nam.”

Victor R. Volkman
Victor R. Volkman
Victor R. Volkman is Senior Editor of Modern History Press, a publishing house dedicated to empowering authors to speak about surviving conflict and seeking identity in modern times. Although not a veteran of any service, he is committed to seeing veterans’ stories told.

Marc Levy
Marc Levy served with Delta 1/7 Cav as an infantry medic in Viet Nam and Cambodia in 1970. He was decorated once for gallantry, twice for valor, and twice court-martialed. His prose, poetry and essays have been published in various online and print journals, most recently on In 2001 he was selected to attend an ACA residence. A video of his war experiences, “The Real Deal,” is distributed by The Cinema Guild.

Tommy Joe Skiens
Tom Skiens joined the 11th light infantry brigade in Hawaii, September 1967 a year out of high school. Tom became the 4.2 inch Forward Observer (FO) for Charlie Company, 4th Battalion 3d Infantry Regiment on the USS General Gordon seven days before they arrived in Viet Nam. He later attended Southern Oregon State College from 1969 through 1974. He has conducted 50 critical incident debriefings which provided trauma related information to over 600 people. He also brought the drug free workplace program to the National Forest where he worked. This led to four interventions. Tom has given classes and trained others about substance abuse and critical incident stress.

Tony Swindell
Tony Swindell served with the 31st PID, 11th Light Infantry Brigade (LIB), Americal Division, during 1968-69. His unit participated in the My Lai massacre in Pinkville in 1968, and he was later a witness to incidents involving the murder of Vietnamese civilians by brigade commander Col. John W. Donaldson. He is currently an editor at the Sherman, Texas, Herald Democrat.

Tyler: Welcome, Victor, Marc and Tom. I’m happy you could join me today. Let’s begin by your telling me about what is contained in “More Than a Memory”-are they individual recollections of the Viet Nam War? Continue reading Interview on Reader Views

And a B-52 for you

By Tom Skiens

In October 1968 I got a punji stick in my left knee while conducting a combat assault with Charley Company of the 4/3 Inf. I found the punji stick by a large gray moss and debris covered rock I was hiding behind.

I was hiding behind the rock because that’s what I always did when I reached the destination of a combat assault. I would get off the chopper, hide behind a rock or tree, or a piece of bamboo or an anthill or a chick dressed up like a rice paddy Dyke on a motorcycle. I could hide behind a single blade of grass, Or you or him. I was determined to hide behind something because that’s how the army had trained me.

Even though I was an expert at hiding I always liked to be on the first lift of a combat assault. Maybe then I would catch some shit and get out of the bush in a half-way, sort of respectful manner. It never occurred to me that I could die again. Hell, I had already died once.

So I am hiding behind this rock covered with debris from the two B-52s who, 1/2 hour earlier, had dropped half their load in this huge valley that had its mouth pointing in a northeasterly direction.

The B-52’s did a 180 and dropped the rest of their load in the valley. “C” and “D” companies were far enough away to be safe but close enough to be impressed. We could feel the shaking of the earth like God taking command of the planet with a completely controlling hand and moving it about. The sound was a deep, deep rumble unlike the sharp smacking sound of artillery or the air moving freight train sound of 16 inch rounds as they passed overhead. This sound was God awful death from 40,000 feet. Hundreds of bombs going off individually and combining into one move the earth rumble.
Continue reading And a B-52 for you



By: Tom Skiens

Have you heard about Betty
She’s a bouncer from the land of ville s
The first time that I met her
Was at the bottom of an old ROK hill

The ROK’s long since departed
some wire and Betty remain
The point diddy bopped right over the top
but not Scully and Hall, what a shame

Its a hot date, our first time with Betty
She dropped ten men in a row
The eleventh in line was Zimmerman
learning things he didn’t want to know

The Zimmer Man and I
Well we got to walk the line
I be judging the size of Betty’s holes
On the radio with the Captain all the time

We be needing two choppers for the dust off
One bird can’t lift all this weight
We have two that are in no hurry
They be lined up at the pearly gate

The Zimmer Man and I
We be prancing down the line
You with the 2″ hole in the shoulder
Grab your gear and double time

Betty’s got one moaning
Another s  losing his mind
And another with a face full of shrapnel
Froze up standing his place in line

The Zimmer Man and I
Doing shit we never knew
Rifling through Rucks and Pancho’s
Getting ready for dust off #2

I don’t think  I like Betty
She’s a fickle bitch at  best
She jumps right up, 3 feet or so
And then fuck’s you in the chest

She will blow your legs to the left
And the rest of you to the right
She will blow your balls into the next day
And posses the souls of the night

With special thanks to;

Marc Levy, Mentor, editor and widely published author.

Betty:  M-16 A1 antipersonnel mine. When tripped, a Bouncing Betty jumps out of the ground 3 to 5 feet before exploding.
Villes:  G.I. slang for village
land of villes: authors phrase to represent Vietnam
ROK hill: A Republic of Korea base camp built on a hill.
ROK:  A feared mercenary from the Republic of Korea.
diddy bop: GI slang for walked or passed by

Stolen Youth

Our youth was tested
all those many years ago
when the boys we were
faced the mortality
of the men we were to be.

In the chaos that lurked
just beyond the wire,
The mayhem of bitter tribulation
waited in ambush,
calling for us by name…
beckoning for our very souls.

Deaths Black Angel
would pass in a rush of indifference;
his cold, icy fingers reaching
for the warmth of Life itself;
our youthful spirits forever wounded
by the vulgar stench of war.

Time has become entangled
in the oppressive barbed wire silence.
stilled by the need for penance,
it tortures the heart and spirit;
wanting only the peaceful refuge
of holy absolution.

Let our sorrows and tears
fall upon their granite names,
those many faces we knew.
Friends made…
Friends lost.
God shed your Grace on thee.

This was our stolen youth
those many years ago
when the men we were
walked with death and insanity
on the fine line of madness.

Doc Rich R