I was not supposed to remember Eskel telling Father about the Israeli atomic bomb in ’60.
Or McCord telling LeMay to keep our DIA cover team out of Dallas in ’63.
I was not supposed to remember the heroin in the bodybags on a C-130,
Or how the CIA flooded Oakland with drugs, simply because people said ‘set us free.’
I was not supposed to remember selling shoulder launch rockets in Kabul,
Or killing 11,000 young Russina draftees in an Afghan tunnel under a hill.
I was not supposed to remember the UN troops in the Congo. It was 1962, and by the end of the day my nine-year-old hands were burned by the Bren-gun I had used in my part of the brutal show.
I was not supposed to remember the taking of life, all the brutal moments of combat with men’s throats under my knife.
But I remember it all. Every face, every cry, every mother’s call.
– Mark Richards (c) 2010