Author: Tetman Callis
i scraped and shuffled and pawed my way through my desk
finding sheets of canceled airmail stamps
i cut them into airplane shapes with my exacting knife
building paper planes again
kneeling beside my bed i lifted the spread’s hemmed edge
sure i heard the ghost of my lover’s soft sobbing, or some sort of coughing
coming from the gap between the slats and floor
there was nothing there but my imagination and clumps of dust
i crawled beneath the bed to join them, gather them, dreams and dirt together
press them between my palms until they were one and they were dead
night came down
i slept
morning woke me with its light in through my window
the dead remained as they always are, dream-filled and as ghosts
i opened the window, called my lover’s name, let fly a paper plane
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“By June 21 [1915], the eight JN–2 airplanes, eight sets of spares, and twelve engines had arrived at San Diego. The new airplanes were quaint by today’s standards; but compared to the awkward-looking pushers and clumsy early tractors, they were beauties characterized by low rakish lines, staggered equal-span wings, and a long, narrow fuselage. Their appearance, however, hid serious defects. ‘They looked like airplanes,’ [Captain Benjamin D.] Foulois later wrote. ‘But we were to find that an airplane that looks like an airplane may be something less.’ ” – Roger G. Miller, “A Preliminary to War: The 1st Aero Squadron and the Mexican Punitive Expedition of 1916 ”
i believe in gallons of powerful coffee
laced with quarts of cream
pyramids of raspberry danishes
high-stacked beds of juicy steaks
cigarettes of marijuana and tobacco
fine dry wine
martinis with olives
the curve inward of a woman’s waist
(nature’s most perfect line)
the wet spot
the way she comes under my touch
her smile and the light in her eyes
and the light
my god, the light!
(Published in nibble eleven, 2009; copyright 2009, 2023, by Tetman Callis.)
i dreamed i was having
an affair with monica lewinsky.
she and i spent the night
at her house (in my dream).
it was a nice house (in my dream).
monica’s mom was concerned
but we told her, it’s okay, monica’s
mom, we didn’t have sex.
it rained that night. monica
snuck outside and covered my
car with a tarp while i slept.
that’s how nice she is.
i awoke (out of my dream),
ate nuts for breakfast, showered
and found i was down to my
last pair of clean briefs.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The wise say that for men there are seven gates through which admission may be gained into Heaven. There are asceticism, benevolence, tranquillity of mind, self-command, modesty, simplicity, and kindness to all creatures. The wise also say that a person loseth all these in consequence of vanity. That man who having acquired knowledge regardeth himself as learned, and with his learning destroyeth the reputation of other, never attaineth to regions of indestructible felicity.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
daybreak in april
the drive-thru lane of a fast-food restaurant
perched on a railing in front of my car
two sparrows, one atop the other
i’ll take fries with that
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
two persons were talking this
morning at the 7-11 checkout
isn’t it great the rain we’re having?
yes, but wouldn’t it be better to see
it at home in the garden? oh, yes!
no talk of the war
sore spot, this war
hundreds of children marched
from the high school yesterday,
in spontaneous protest peacefully
marching miles, escorted after
a few blocks by local police officers,
who cautioned them to stay
out of the streets and off of
federal property
they peacefully returned and were
all suspended from school, given
today to stay at home
the authorities appreciated their
idealism and exercise of free
speech, but cautioned them
that if they marched again,
the consequences would be severe
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“White people are scared of change, believing that what they have is being taken away from them by people they consider unworthy. But all they’re doing is poking a bear with a stick. In 2004, the Anglo population in Texas became a minority. The last majority-Anglo high-school class in Texas graduated in 2014. There will never be another. The reality is, it’s all over for the Anglos.” – Evan Smith, of the Texas Tribune (quoted by Lawrence Wright in “America’s Future is Texas,” The New Yorker, July 10 & 17, 2017)
she said she would
rather die than go
back to kansas
after she bought
her ticket, what else
was he to do?
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
on the fifteenth floor of the building where i work, the men’s room has two stalls—
one for special needs and one for regular joes.
the fifteenth floor also has the office where i work,
and it has another office, a federal agency, discreet and well-armed.
(the agency’s name does not appear on the building’s lobby directory. i see
the agents bringing carts of weapons up by freight elevator, and i see nothing.)
i stop by the men’s room to sit a spell, routine business,
with a copy of the new yorker at hand.
the stall for regular joes is occupied. i occupy the other.
my installed neighbor flushed as soon as i came in.
good, he’ll be leaving soon and i can concentrate on relaxing.
but he doesn’t leave. he rustles a newspaper.
i pull down my pants and sit.
he sits.
i sit.
he rustles his paper again, noisily, and flushes again.
i read the new yorker. (an article about sleeping with baby.
nothing this issue about crapping with strangers.)
i sit.
he sits.
i try to relax.
i hear my neighbor pissing, rustling noisily again,
flushing, standing, buckling, zipping, etc.,
and i am at last alone in the men’s room on the fifteenth floor,
in the stall for special needs, reading the new yorker and relaxing
just down the hall from the regular joes with their guns and ammunition.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“The souls of dead babies don’t wait around, like glass bottles, to be recycled into new ones just as good as the old ones were. They go somewhere dark, and silent, and forever.” – Francesca Leader, “Now you See Him”
my bright, beloved son
my shining morning star
i weep for you now
a hissing serpent on the floor of hell
you have broken my heart, my first-born son
i weep for you
i weep for myself
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
i found you puttering in the dark back yard at a reunion of surfaces and smiles
joking nervously as you skillfully ignored me, eyes never meeting mine
i asked you if you would despite your little gold ring
and you gave the same answer you gave on all saints day
do you recall that day, darling, when you told me what i could do
well
you weren’t the only one
but you were the only one
frolicking in the desert sand, laughing
dancing drunkenly around the brown van and matching station wagon
children with our adult toys, dodging each other just to play at getting along
i rolled another joint and hit out on the highway
a snow-streaked mountain rose from the flat sand and the joint wasn’t getting me high
not like they used to get me high so high
a cold rain fell and i stood outside the gym
i smoked a joint but it didn’t seem to get me high
all the children waited inside
i opened the door and told them the grass is no good
i awoke thinking, it’s still early in the day
i should get out to the desert in a hurry so i’ll have all day to be high
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Why, why do you Americans always offer to help when you don’t fucking want to help, and you’ll die if someone actually takes you up on it?” – Francesca Leader, “Now you See Him” (emphases in original)
people look at me they got
they look so afraid in their eyes
they got when they look at me it’s like
what do people why
i don’t
never mind forget it’s not
can you spare
do you have any
mister excuse me sir
excuse me sir do you
excuse me sir can you spare some change
i’d like to get something to eat you don’t
excuse me mister could you spare
some change i’m trying i want
i’m trying to get to california
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
we are the workers, the telemarketers and associates, frayed-collar seasonals
and scuffed-shoe temps, assemblers of components and stackers of goods,
salt of the earth, populating battlefield and factory and giant retail outlet,
we are the shareholders of scraps, hard-scrabbling for a can of peas
and a ticket to the game
we are the workers, we take no franchise, all but silent save
the muttering of complaint (they’ll fire you if they hear you say that)
we puff our cigarettes just outside steel-plated back doors, our exhaled smoke
bright in the winter sun, our breath smoky in the cold morning air
we are the workers, we watch from the sidelines, from balcony seats, from back rows
we are the men and women who take the late shift, who clean up the mess,
scouring and buffing, sweeping and dusting, making the world shine spotless and bright
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Thou shouldst ever keep the virtuous before thee as thy models; thou shouldst ever with retrospective eye compare thy acts with those of the virtuous; thou shouldst ever disregard the hard words of the wicked. Thou shouldst ever make the conduct of the wise the model upon which thou art to act thyself. The man hurt by the arrows of cruel speech hurled from one’s lips, weepeth day and night. Indeed, these strike at the core of the body. Therefore the wise never fling these arrows at others. There is nothing in the three worlds by which thou canst worship and adore the deities better than by kindness, friendship, charity and sweet speeches unto all. Therefore, shouldst thou always utter words that soothe, and not those that scorch.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
the rains came raining hard and for weeks cold autumn rains out of low gray
skies the desert’s flowers bloomed rotted and washed away lizards snakes and
rabbits gathered on high ground around clumps of mesquite coyotes
padded splashing through puddles searching for stragglers inadequately
hidden under the mesquite’s protecting thorns or for corpses bloating
just under the face of the waters or washed up on the shorelets
around each little clump island where the ground was turning into the
kind of mud you could make into bricks for houses if only the rain
would stop and the sun come out long enough for the bricks to be cut then
baked through dry and hard thousands of square miles round miles triangulated
miles jagged-edged miles shoved up one against the other with edges that
didn’t match all these miles covered in household mud just waiting to be
cut shaped and patted into bricks leavened with the bones the coyotes
didn’t eat with stems and leaves of drowned grasses blossoms off rotted
wildflowers a nation could be mobilized given a mission
volunteers crusading into the desert to make bricks for all the
shivering homeless of africa asia indianapolis
and south fusilado of the cardboard shacks there would be no need for
the sun to come out the army could be sent in soldiers towing huge
field ovens behind heavy tracked vehicles bricks baked on the spot spray
coated with some experimental titanium- or graphite-based
resin then loaded onto pallets in stacks covered with canvas bearing
reinforced eyes at specified intervals along the edges strong
nylon ropes passing through the eyes and made secure other ropes coming
off the corners of the pallets to join and loop loosely at the tops
while huge helicopters settle over fields of pallets hovering
while soldiers in ponchos and boonie hats stand atop the palleted
stacks of canvas-covered resin-coated bricks the soldiers hooking
the ropes to hooks hanging from chains hanging from the bellies of the
helicopters the soldiers double-checking to ensure that the ropes
and hooks and chains are secure then jumping from the pallets into the
mud splashing catching the eyes of the helicopter pilots giving
the high sign the thumbs up the wave off the when you are ready gridley
to the pilots whose helicopters lift straining against the weight of
their loads pulling the pallets out of the sucking mud and up into
cruising altitude flying them to the nearest concrete airstrip where
military transports dumpy olive drab turboprops and sleek silver
jets wait to take on loads of bricks made of mud and bones and flowers to
fly to every part of the world bringing the makings of homes to
millions of people who may have had a pot to piss in but had no
window to throw it out of who would never know what it was like to
have the wolf at the door until they could build themselves huts to put doors
in people who for ease of planning could be reckoned as being without
discernible direction who would never know what hit them when it
did who knew how to be grateful for the well-molded military
brick who could speak a smattering of english who could swallow pride by
the tunful who knew what side their bread was buttered on if they could get
bread and who could be counted on never to breathe a word always to
go quietly ever to wait their turn and know it when it came and
never to forget never to forgive and who would swear that next time
it wouldn’t be them and it wouldn’t be rain
(Published in different form as “The Well-Molded Military Brick” in New York Tyrant, 18 December 2017; copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
in the land of the blind i had one eye
and i was the king
more than the king i was the god
i could take whatever and whoever i wanted
all the gold
any young virgin
bored with this i traveled to the land of those who have two eyes
sometimes a third
and some even four
they could see what i could not
they could perceive depth and see within
their servants all were one-eyed men
there is no way for me to return to my kingdom
i serve others now, and no longer know the blind
(Published in Folly, April 2010; copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“By him is everything conquered, who calmly subdueth his rising anger. He is regarded as a man who by having recourse to forgiveness, shaketh off his rising anger like a snake casting off its slough. He that suppressed his anger, he that regardeth not the evil speeches of others, he that becometh not angry, though there be cause, certainly acquireth the four objects for which we live (viz., virtue, profit, desire, and salvation). Between him that performeth without fatigue sacrifices every month for a hundred years, and him that never feeleth angry at anything, he that feeleth not wrath is certainly the higher. Boys and girls, unable to distinguish between right and wrong, quarrel with each other. The wise never imitate them.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
november 14, 2001, and i’m high. it’s 11 o’clock. the 11th hour.
the taliban are broken and fleeing—like slaughtered chickens,
by the reported report of their leader, whose name
i forget but he didn’t have—doesn’t have—a catchy name like hitler.
now there was a name you could sink your teeth into.
not to be too bloodthirsty about it, but let us—us being me,
in my several manifestations of self, always alone but
never lonely—let us celebrate tonight the mixed blessing
of so many jihaders being eager for martyrdom under
american carpet-bombing and spooky.
oh spooky. to be under spooky. there you are,
you’re on the ground, it’s dark, you hear aircraft overhead
but you can’t see them and figure they can’t see you,
but spooky has the range down tight with a night-goggled
crew loosing tubes of fire with a thousand explosions
at their ends. you’re at those ends, farewell.
i keep getting distracted from our war and everything else
and smoking more pot, which sounds like a good plan to us—
all of me—right now. it’s a new moon making a useful excuse
for something where the true excuse has always been, when it is the case,
oh look—i have more pot—i think i’ll smoke it.
it is the case now, with a dozen three- and four-month-old
plants in what we call the studio. any time is pot-tea time.
or lame pun time. or smoke time. smoke the main brace.
once it’s burned through, watch the watch collapse.
before, or at the very start of, when tonight i began getting
herbally distracted, i made a list of goals for the next
two months. five they are in number, these goals, and here they are.
but first, another hit. i grow some pretty decent weed.
goal the first is to finish the periodicals, which means
to plow in a readsome way through the three stacks
of magazines etc. on the floor in front of the television,
which three stacks total
wait—
37 inches in height. such a forbidding lot of transience.
wait—
more pot. come to me, my lovely, my mary jane,
let us open a second front.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the president and his secretary for war came last night to a party at my house
barbecue and cocktails, a bonfire in the back yard
i sat with the president and his secretary for war and we talked
the president was charming
he was a funny man
his secretary for war was a sourpuss who didn’t say much
my marijuana plants were growing in a row behind the house
they were young and healthy
i told the president see it’s not such a bad thing
he was noncommittal, changed the subject, made a joke
his secretary for war, a tall gray man
said it was time to leave
we were in the back yard sitting in white plastic lawn chairs
the president stood and began pirouetting across the yard to his waiting limousine
he was a happy man, a funny man, though he had about him the air
of distancing self-protection common among the famous
his secretary for war, not dancing
followed him to the limousine
i turned to one of the other party guests and said see he’s not such a bad guy
this other party guest said no man he’s bullshitting you—look
he pointed towards my house
a small white helicopter fluttered down out of the night sky
standing on one of the helicopter’s white landing skids was a soldier
armed with a heavy machine gun, he opened fire at the back door to my house
the bullets were explosive
white flashes and sparks erupted
my house caught fire, though my marijuana plants still stood
silhouetted by the flames and explosions
the party was over
the helicopter landed
the soldier told me it was time for me to clean up all the mess
housecats stood on naked wires in front of me as though on clotheslines
i was to turn a rheostat to send current through the wires
to see how much the housecats could take and what would happen
and when would they die
i turned the rheostat
the housecats’ paws began to smolder
the housecats looked at me, their eyes were green
i broke the rules and turned the rheostat up all the way to get it over with
the housecats fell smoldering onto the wires
the wires burned through their paws, their legs, their whiskers, their jaws
and the tops of their heads
they fell from the wires
there were the smells of burning fur and flesh
it was day and my house had burned down
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Truly, one’s appetites are never satiated by enjoyment. On the other hand, like sacrificial butter poured into the fire, they flame up with indulgence. Even if one enjoyed the whole Earth with its wealth, diamonds and gold, animals and women, one may not yet be satiated.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
the last of the gods
lonely bastard
not content to create one batch of stalwarts prostrate in fear and hunger and worship
he created two more
an unholy trinity of religions to fight for ages over which of them is daddy’s favorite
and now he’s dying
but being a god he’s taking his sweet time about it
and taking as many as he can of his misbegotten children along with him
into the hell of his own creation
this could go on for centuries
he’s already on life support
his children await a new prometheus to come and pull the plug
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
headline in this morning’s paper—firefight erupts in fallujah
as though a firefight were some phenomenon such as a thunderstorm
or a volcano or an earthquake or a plague
some terrifying disease
which is true
true also that headline writers
are constrained by the amount of space they must fill on a page
and the amount of time they can spend on filling it
firefight erupts in fallujah
not enough space on the page to write something more expansive or poetic
something along the lines of my god my god what have we done?
something overwrought like that to match the situation
a firefight erupts in fallujah
and there is only so much space available and the font has to be a certain size
however the headline ends up reading it must fit into the same space
pride goeth before a fall is a little too short
though it could be said to fit the facts
the headline just as well could have been
terrifying sickness persists
that one both fits the facts and the allotted space
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“An ugly person considereth himself handsomer than others until he sees his own face in the mirror. But when he sees his own ugly face in the mirror, it is then that he perceiveth the difference between himself and others. He that is really handsome never taunts anybody. And he that always talketh evil becometh a reviler. And as the swine always look for dirt and filth even when in the midst of a flower-garden, so the wicked always choose the evil out of both evil and good that others speak. Those, however, that are wise, on hearing the speeches of others that are intermixed with both good and evil, accept only what is good, like geese that always extract the milk only, though it be mixed with water. As the honest are always pained at speaking ill of others, so do the wicked always rejoice in doing the same thing. As the honest always feel pleasure in showing regard for the old, so do the wicked always take delight in aspersing the good. The honest are happy in not seeking for faults. The wicked are happy in seeking for them. The wicked ever speak ill of the honest. But the latter never injure the former, even if injured by them. What can be more ridiculous in the world than that those that are themselves wicked should represent the really honest as wicked?” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
we’re not going to do a briefcase-by-briefcase check.
we’re going to [ redacted ].
we may [ redacted ] the [ redacted ], put [ redacted ] the [ redacted ].
we don’t want to hurt business.
our [redacted] is vulnerable.
all [ redacted ]—six or seven every [redacted]—[ redacted ] the [redacted].
we’ll put an extra guard [ redacted ], change procedures.
[redacted] sets of eyes—[ redacted ] present at all times in [redacted].
have someone in your [ redacted ] at all times.
or [ redacted ].
[ redacted ] probably a soft target.
it would be kudos to bad guys [ redacted ].
major concern is [redacted].
and [ redacted ].
we don’t have [ redacted ] the [redacted].
the [redacted]—[ redacted ] a [ redacted ] the [redacted].
any determined person could [ redacted ].
[redacted] are potential targets.
we’ve activated our emergency plan.
we’re keeping our eyes open and [ redacted ].
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
up in the third third of the night, unable to return to sleep,
in my flannel robe i sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the television,
watching the latest war news—urban fighting and point-blank fire,
bunker-buster bombs and thousands of empty combat boots, firefights filmed
in unearthly green light, dead and wounded in uncounted numbers, palaces littered
with shattered marble and broken glass, rubble and fire and ceaseless black smoke
—all interspersed with ads for situation comedies, sleek and shiny high-powered cars,
and medicines that should do the trick (though there may be unfortunate side-effects).
i am advised to consult with my doctor, take out a low-interest loan, and stay tuned.
(Published in Folly, April 2010; copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Men scorched by mental grief, or suffering under bodily pain, feel as much refreshed in the companionship of their wives as a perspiring person in a cool bath. No man, even in anger, should ever do anything that is disagreeable to his wife, seeing that happiness, joy, and virtue, everything dependeth on the wife. A wife is the sacred field in which the husband is born himself.” – The Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Vol. I, Sambhava Parva of the Adi Parva, trans. Pratap Chandra Roy
The final letter
July 23, 1950
Dear Folks
I have a little more time to write now than I did the other day. In case you didn’t get the other letter there was $80 in Travelers checks in it.
We are aboard a Japanese Ship (I can’t pronounce the name of it) We will get to Korea in the morning or at least we are supposed to. We have to sleep on the floor, eat “C” rations, wash in helmets all the comforts of home.
Tell Bob that I am in a 57 M.M. Recoiless Rifle Section, which we do not have yet and I
haven’t ever seen either but we will get them in Korea. I am an ammunition bearer and carry a carbine. There is five men in our squad.
The coast of Japan is in sight now, it is only about a mile (1) away. The name of it is pronounced Sasabu (I don’t know how it is spelled)
We pick up a convoy of ships and escorts here I hope.
We drew 40 rounds of ammo this afternoon and will get some more tomorrow.
Tell Toby and the rest of the kids to be good and to behave themselves.
Okinawa (or what I saw of it) was dirty, filthy and almost primitive beyond your imagination.
I got seasick on the first day out of Frisco and again on the 11th, 12th + 13th days as we ran into a typhoon. Don’t ever believe that it isn’t a miserable feeling. I wanted to vomit till my boots came out my mouth. One of few times and I hope for the last I missed three complete meals so you know I must’ve been sick.
I did not have time to get my baggage and equipment that was stored in the Walker, so they just gave me new stuff in place of it.
Please keep these pictures for me.
Well I can think of anything else so I’ll close. Write soon
Love
Henry
PERSONAL
Mother or Daddy
Tell Lib to send Ann what money that she (Lib) thinks neccessary. I have made out an allotment to Lib.
In case I don’t get back, and I certainly do intende to, make the kids go to school, they will need all they can get.
The Ascension of Henry Callis
Corporal Henry Callis, younger brother to my father, was on a troopship steaming to Japan in the summer of 1950 when the Korean War broke out. He was on his way with several hundred other troops to join the 29th Regimental Combat Team on Okinawa and be part of the post-World-War-Two American Army of Occupation there. The regiment was understrength and had only two battalions, instead of the three called for by its full complement. Nobody had expected war in Korea. If war came, everybody expected it to be nuclear and against the Soviet Union.
Henry and the others on the troopship arrived at Okinawa one morning and learned their mission had changed. They were issued combat gear and company assignments. By sundown they were aboard another troopship along with the rest of the 29th and were on their way to the port of Pusan on the bottom-right corner of the Korean peninsula. A day later they arrived. They disembarked and headed up to the front line, the location of which no one was certain. The North Koreans had launched a devastating surprise attack to start the war against South Korea a few weeks earlier, and were still on the march. What few American troops were available in Japan had been rushed to South Korea to help the shattered South Korean army. They were being overwhelmed. The North Korean army was large and well-equipped, well-trained and possessed of many veterans of the Chinese Civil War, which had ended the previous autumn. The situation was fluid and becoming desperate.
The soldiers of the 29th Regimental Combat Team were told they were going to fight a couple hundred communist guerrillas near a town called Hadong-ri. They headed that way by train and then by truck, and then by foot. Their rifles and machine guns were all new. The machine guns were still packed away in their protective shipping grease when the regiment got to Pusan. They hadn’t been test-fired and their sights hadn’t been aligned. And not all the equipment had been distributed. Not all the regiment’s doctors had medical tools and supplies.
The men — boys almost, like Henry, who had himself just turned twenty that spring — were very confident and very green. Very few of them, maybe about one out of every one hundred, were Second World War combat veterans. These were generally the sergeants and not the commissioned officers.
The regiment drew near to Hadong-ri and deployed along a ridge with one battalion on one side of the road and the other on the other. They saw a few soldiers moving around in the valley in front of them. They weren’t sure if these were stray South Korean soldiers, but they thought it likely that’s what they were. They had been told they would be mopping up guerrillas and they didn’t expect to see uniformed soldiers in front of them. The regiment’s commander and his staff got out of their jeeps and stood in the road at the top of the ridge and tried to figure out what was going on. They stood in a clump. Binoculars hung from straps around their necks and they held maps in their hands. Mortar and recoilless rifle fire slammed into the ridge. The first shots killed the regimental commander and his staff. The regiment was not facing a group of ragged irregulars they outnumbered five to one. They were up against a crack North Korean division that outnumbered them ten to one.
It was not long before the 29th Regimental Combat Team was shattered and routed. Its fragments were driven back down off the ridge and through the rice paddies behind it. Hundreds of American soldiers were killed or went missing. Henry was one of the missing. The soldiers were so new to their companies that many of them didn’t know each others’ names. There was no one who knew Henry Callis who survived the battle and could say what had happened to him. He was as gone as though he had vanished from the face of the earth, lifted up bodily in the rapture of war.