by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 42~Sept. 45
If ever there was mud,
It had to be the crud
That lay about
On Okinawa's scene.
Of every place
They had to be,
To take a hill,
Or blast a mill,
Or march along
Some stinkin'
Piece of ground
That led to somewhere else
Just as muddy as the first,
Just so you wouldn't feel
Let down!
You know what I mean.
I know you have seen
A place they called a road,
Where you trucked
Your heavy load
Mired in muck
Up to your bloody ass!
There ain't no answer for it,
We all of us
Deplore it.
And there's not a freakin' thing
That you can do.
And when the man says "Go!"
And you have no choice
To show,
Then you cuss
The very God
That got you there.
When your truck's stuck
In a hole,
And they tell you
To "Heave ho!"
Well, you might as well
Just crawl in there with it.
Of all the shit they throw,
As you struggle
With the foe,
There ain't nothin'
That will chill your
Ass like the mud.
It will stop a brigade,
Put a division
In the shade,
And cause a general
To give up
His flamin' stars!
You all remember well,
How you dodged
The shot and shell,
With your foxhole
Filled with bloody freakin rain!
And how you managed to sleep,
In that mire most
Ass deep,
Is a mystery that
They have yet to solve!
There never was a war
That was fought
From near to far,
That was
Pleasant for the bleedin' troops!
So take my advice:
Think it over
Once or twice,
Before you sign up
For the raggedy-ass Marines!
* * *
About the author: Robert Cook served with Reg. Weapons Co.(2d-2d) from 1942~44, at Guadalcanal
and Tarawa, during a 33-month overseas tour.
"We sit in the mud . . . and reach for the stars."
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev (18181883), Russian author.
Narrator, "Enough," ch. 16 (1865).
