Gunner's Moon

Gunner's Moon is a collection of poems written by Cpt. Roy Zarucchi of the 609th Special Operations Squadron during their time as part of Operation Steel Tiger. I managed to acquire this copy from an estate sale on eBay. To whomever was bidding against me, I hope that this is an adequate consolation. I wanted to preserve and share these stories with everyone.

The copy of this work in the IHF Library is signed by Zarucchi.

Normally we would not post the entirety of a book on our site, however, Roy Zarucchi retired as a Major and has unfortunately passed away in 2011. The Publisher information listed in the book does not seem to be valid any longer. Either the publisher has become defunct, or else the sole proprietor of the publisher has also perished since the book was published in 1998. We have made all good-faith efforts to contact anyone connected with this publisher, but have not been able to do so. As such, we have decided to post the entirety of the work here to preserve Roy Zarucchi's legacy since the book is out of the print and only limited quantities were produced. We are doing this on a good-faith basis and not attempting to infringe upon any copyrights. If you are an agent or representative of the publisher and wish this content to be removed, please send us an email and the information will be removed immediately.

Preface by Carolyn Page

TRUCKS RUNNING THROUGH LAOS

Some nights in rural countrysides the only sounds are owls bathed in moonlight. Farmers dream of breeding bulls, dragging stones, setting fence posts. In our house my lover plows in foreign soil, and I lie down with the enemy. From nowhere they come through thin skin of dreams, they slip between the sheets, aim and take prisoners, and I am captive too, for I am war-blind to my lover's lens. I see no tracers flash nor hear strange tongues. No splash of napalm, no slow death's fiery orange glow in sweaty tropical nights. "Smitty, watch out!" means nothing in the dawn. "I'll kill the lousy son of a bitch!" rings out and I cannot touch this rage until it cools, "Roll in! Break right! Pull out!" The red-lit cockpit charts mark targets to be blown—convoys of trucks crawling along the jungle floor. It's a private Hell, an undeclared war still raging in an undemilitarized zone.

Part I—Toy Soldier

The Wall

Give 'em a place to bang their heads.
Build it long and low out of sight from the White House;
sweep up the medals and litter at sundown.

War Zone

In the hills to the east of San Francisco Bay, the vacant lot next door turns green for two months every year—signal for the battles to begin. Dig the foxholes and don the army surplus belt, it's dirt-bomb hand grenade time and spit-through-the-front-teeth gun fire flying with the voice of tail-gunner Joe McCarthy rat-a-tat-tat those goddamn, godless, commie-pinko bastards, while we sing Onward Christian Soldiers join the Boy Scouts then duck and cover having been born on the eve of Seig Heil but, at that point, having lived only so far as Are you now or have you ever been...?

Rockfishing

—for a stepfather who liked to teach lessons
With ball of chalkline, can of guts, and gunnysack we started down the bluff. "Put your foot where I tell you," you said. You went ahead. My small hands gripped random rocks and roots. I wished for your touch, your arms, your face. Later, on the splashing rocks, I whined, "What're we fishing for?" Then suddenly, out of the blue-green sea, from beyond my mind, on the end of my line, it came. The Cabezone grinned, grim in the watery light. Maroon or grey or green, it thrashed. You pried loose the hook and threw him in the sack. We started back. "Follow me," you said, and, with a wag of burlap bag, you went ahead. Scaling up a hundred feet or more, like a Bighorn sheep, you climbed. I looked down at the surging sea below, beneath the seagulls' backs. "I Can't!" My words flapped in between the sea lions' barks and up the face of the tilted, tumbling bluff. "I can't!" "Son, there's no such word!" you shouted back.

Volunteering

Three boys are at the quarry pond scooping tadpoles into Mason jars when up comes Billy Kurtz. He sneers, stands atop the biggest rock and strips, crouches toward the boys across the pond, pale skin taut, fearsome tool swinging, he springs into the pool then surfaces before them. "SISSIES!" he jeers with a smirk. Towers above, dripping on their faces. They fumble, strip, and wade in, hairless and pink, no match for Billy, they laugh and yelp as he seizes each in hairy arms and roughs them up. Later, as they dress, he lights a cigarette, eyes their rosy buttons shriveled from the cold, blows the smoke their way. You're my boys now. Tell anyone who wants to mess with you that you belong to Billy Kurtz.

Seminary

Habits dwell in cells, like silence not to be broken, no words uttered from evening prayers till morning after breakfast; clothes, not a matter of adornment, but protection against eyes of the world. Matins, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline: the seven hours bind us into order, string us up in the thrall of rote—the Rosary—lips begging "...the fruit of thy womb... now and in the hour of our death..." the mind disrobes a dark woman while the oscillating mouth dissolves to a smile around each prayer. Fingers linger on the nubs of beads, and the confessional door at the rear of the chapel clicks open clicks shut.