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War Jokes Wanted


Colonel:  What is that you’ve got written on your helmet?

Pvt. Joker:  Born to Kill, sir.

Colonel:  You write “Born to Kill” on your helmet and you wear a peace button.  What’s that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?!

Pvt. Joker:  No, sir.

Hasford, Herr, Kubrick: Full Metal Jacket

T he well known Uncle Sam portrait pointing at you, but emblazoned on his left breast, combat ribbons, and above and below him the fiery red phrase “I Want Your War Jokes From Hell! And beneath this the tidy message: “Widely published Nam vet seeks your best combat jokes to teach civilians the grim, raw truth of war.  Any war, any branch of service.”

The basic assumption was simple: place the ad at, with Armytimes in hard copy, send out informal queries, contact Iraq/Afghanistan veteran associations; the gallows humor will roll in.  Our friend Larry Scott, web master at even profiled the project: we hoped to write a book on combat jokes with essays that explained why soldiers resort to dark humor under extreme circumstances.  We did not want the puff pieces once gamely trotted out in Humor in Uniform, a monthly Readers Digest collection of old-time military gags which put a smiley face on horror.  We sought tasteless, obscene, unforgivable lawless jokes whose wit and irony strips war bare of its mythic bones, looks death full in the face and laughs because that’s all that one can do.

Despite our best efforts, veterans struggled with the concept; they sent in cute vignettes, war stories, or clean cut bits on inter-service rivalry.  In the end we received barely a half dozen items that conveyed how war numbs the soul; kills it, the better to survive, and how humor, in service to survival, reflects that demonic courage.

Its possible that far from the heated stink of carnage, combat vets may tell battle gags to unsuspecting civilians, or to other vets, then may set aside the jokes they carried.  Misunderstood on the home front, freighted with secret guilt and shame, after a time, far from the bullet’s madding crowd, gallows humor may lose its healing cautery.  The next step may be years of denial, or therapy, or both.

Foolosophy 101

Nam vet, teacher, and distinguished writer Larry Heinemann, author of  Pacos Story (National Book Award), Close Quarters (some say the best fictional account on the Vietnam War) and Black Virgin Mountain, sent this gem:

“A colonel and his sergeant major chopper out to a landing zone to see for themselves the aftermath of a large and bloody firefight.  There was heavy fighting, and many casualties on both sides. When they arrive the American KIAs are lined up shoulder to shoulder in back of the makeshift aid station, covered with ponchos and waiting for the choppers to come fetch them.  There are many, many bodies.  The colonel and the sergeant major slowly make their way down the line, lifting the flaps of the ponchos to view the faces.  The colonel looks more and more troubled the farther down the line he goes, and is truly upset.  Finally he looks over to the sergeant major and says, “All so young.  What a pity. What a waste.  Sergeant Major, how old do you think these boys are?”  The sergeant major looks at the colonel, and says, “They’re all dead, Colonel.  That’s as old as you get.”

Only veterans laughed at the cruel tag line. The joke spoofs superior rank and pathos. A Quixotic colonel is upended by his Sergeant Majors Sancho Panza.  Instead of pity or sorrow, the satiric punch line cracks a simpletons smile over the gauntlet of corpses.  But the simpleton is no fool. The good Sergeants knife-edge clarity has been won through repeated jousts with mortal danger.  His understated last line is a moral coup de grace.

Drop Dead Funny

Former Lieutenant Fred Angyo Tomasello Jr., author of Walking Wounded: Memoir of a Combat Veteran, wrote in, “I never thought anyone would want to hear this,” then unleashed this tasty tale: “On February 1, 1968, my Marines responded to an attack on the Cam Lo District Headquarters near the Demilitirized Zone.  My platoon was tasked with counting the dead and wounded. I assigned the job to Frenchy’s fire team. Artillery had butchered the enemy bodies. Heads, many still wearing helmets, were separated from torsos. Arms and legs were scattered all over the battlefield. The NVA had dug shallow trenches under the barbed wire and used sand to try to cover their dead. “Goddamn, they’re all fucked up, one of  Frenchy’s men complains. “They’re probably booby trapped too.  I ain’t touching any dead gooks. Frenchy shoves him in the chest and yells, “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You chicken-shit or something?  Here!  Here’s how you do it.” Frenchy grabs an ankle sticking up from a shallow trench and tugs as hard as he can. The soldiers body jerks out of the ditch, his other leg flops behind him and the leg that Frenchy’s holding snaps from the body.  Frenchy holds the leg up at me and smiles. “Hey, Lieutenant, he says, “Lets grab one leg each and make a wish.”

Civilians find this tale repugnant.  How could tough well disciplined US troops laugh as they violate enemy losses?  And why, forty years later, did combat vets belly laugh at the grisly punch line?

The teller of this gruesome event illustrates how war exceeds the boundaries of normal human experience.  Reprised is a dreadful graveyard. An officer is again paired with an enlisted counterpart, who fumbles his task.

By invoking superstition, Frenchy pokes fun at himself, and assumes the Lieutenant will join him in laughter. Why? Because counting corpses is normal.  It has been done many times. War wisdom counsels caution but do the job, marine, and do it right.  Rocket, mortar and sapper attacks, day and night ambushes, hunting and being hunted by human beings, have bled all mercy from these men.  They are numb to gods, immune to devils. They act in league with death, they have become it, which frees them to mock with sublime wit their mirror image.

“Mental survival depended on the ability to view life as a black comedy,” said holocaust survivor Thomas Retjo, author of The Reluctant Adventurer.  Or as former Lieutenant Tomasello, Jr wrote, “If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.”  Both might agree that in the valleys and shadows of death hope dies last.

Home Before Mourning

Battle jokes are a unique route to understanding the war experience. They are defense mechanisms, neither self-nor other destructive. Grim GI gags create and reflect a necessary distance from the situation that is their subject. This gap allows soldiers to continue their dirty work in hell’s deadly canyons.  The battlefield joker assumes power over the powerless dead, the nightmare of frightfully mangled, human beings. Cruel jests defuse chaos. With a devils grin war jokes sardonically enervate or erase the rationalized purpose, the  moral and psychological impacts of taking lives, or losing them.  They wittily  give meaning to war by standing meaning on its head.

How to Say Uncle and Influence People

The following arrived from net friend Tommy Skeins, web master of, a site dedicated to the Americal’s 4/3 Light Infantry Brigade, one of several units at My Lai:

Little Bobby and his 6th grade class were given the assignment of writing a fairy tale with a moral ending. The next day, the teacher first called on Susie, who wrote about not counting your chickens before they’re hatched. Then came Mary, whose story involved not crying wolf.  Then, it was Little Bobby’s turn.  “My uncle Tony was in Vietnam and one time he went on a combat assault,” he said.  “On the way, he drank a case of beer, then jumped off the helicopter and killed 100 Viet Cong.  He killed the first 80 with his rifle, 10 with his pistol and clubbed the other 10 to death. After that, he took a knife and a pair of pliers and yanked out all the gold teeth from the dead Viet Cong. The teacher was aghast and blurted out: “Bobby, that’s horrible! What possible moral can you get from that awful story?” Little Bobby shrugged and said: “Don’t fuck with my uncle Tony when he’s been drinking.

What makes this ‘home from combat’ joke funny? Foremost is the point of view: children convey the scope of war and its aftermath.  Naive female 6th graders, aided by a prudish teacher, are pitted against an impish male braggart.  Challenged to defend his tale, the obscenity of Bobby’s reply is twofold. There is the adult-like ambush of foul language, and the little one’s summary of the immense power men wield in war, and wars power to destroy them.

Let The Bad Times Roll

In 1972 Michael Casey won the Yale Younger Poets award for “Obscenities,” re-issued by Carnegie-Mellon in 2002.  A gem among many in the book is the poem “A Bummer.” In twenty-six stark lines, Casey depicts an encounter between a column of tracks (mechanized vehicles), a peasant farmer, and the TC (track commander).  The poem’s last mordant lines and final barbed flourish could have been written yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

A Bummer

We were going single file
Through his rice paddies
And the farmer
Started hitting the lead track
With a rake
He wouldn’t stop
The TC went to talk to him
And the farmer
Tried to hit him too
So the tracks went sideways
Side by side
Through the guys fields
Instead of single file
Hard On, Proud Mary
Bummer, Wallace, Rosemary’s Baby
The Rutgers Road Runner
Go Get Em-Done Got Em
Went side by side
Through the fields
If you have a farm in Vietnam
And a house in hell
Sell the farm
And go home

*   *   *

Such things and worse transpire in combat’s ironic cauldron, and will continue, until unwanted American troops, struggling to hold out in foreign lands with dignity, depart.  Even then a blood trail of guilt, shame and sorrow will long shadow their lives, and those they love.  And that, Mr. Bring Em On, is no laughing matter.

Marc Levy was an infantry medic with Delta 1/7 First Cavalry in Vietnam and Cambodia in 1970.  He can be reached at

Susan Erony is an artist and art historian who has exhibited extensively in Europe and the US.  She can be reached at

Fred Angyo Tomasello’s book is available at

Larry Scott’s profile on War Jokes Wanted is at


Obscenities, by Michael Casey, is available at:

(poem used by permission of the author)



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