Grandpa and his platoon slept in a tent
those months they were stationed at Burma. 
Retired driver of McLean trucking
with less than a high school education,
he often told me stories about the war 

when I was a kid, and one that stands out
was while we bounced a ball to each other
on the concrete walk in front of his house,
him sitting on those mint-green front porch steps
and me by the chain-link gate to the street. 

We passed that ball back and forth in rhythm
with our conversation, me asking him
what it was like, and he would explain it. 
A technical sergeant fixing airplanes –
fighters, bombers, and flying fortresses –

getting pilots and crew back in the air 
as fast as he could during World War 2.
For him, as he told it, the threat to life
was rarely, if ever, at front of mind.  
“Uncle Sam sent me around the whole world!”

He would proclaim with a prideful chuckle. 
Until one night, when they were all asleep
after having roasted meat on a spit
over a camp fire they made in their tent,
he was awakened by a rummaging 

coming from the canvas flap to outdoors
and he saw a tiger had made its way
in with them, sniffing at the empty spit –
then at the feet of his trembling teammate 
who lay in a cot not ten feet away. 

As quiet as possible, grandpa reached 
for his rifle, but before he could aim,
the tiger went off, leaving them alone. 
I guess this is to say I am grateful
the tiger did not bother him that night,

and the enemy who surrounded him
weeks later in battle was driven off, 
and I am here to share the tale he told –
savoring in thought the halcyon time 
of my youth, as well as his place in it.