by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 42~Sept. 45
He lay behind a sand dune,
His rifle aimed ahead,
The figures on the ground
He knew were very dead.
The morning sun
Was wan and cold,
The night had been so very long.
With glasses
He had picked them out
And shot them one by one.
He felt no triumph
In the deed,
No sadness, that is true.
It was just the thing
That he was sent to do.
You cannot be a fighter,
A deliverer of death,
And feel a deep emotion
With every killing breath.
Wars that we are sent to fight
Demand a lot from us,
We seldom go forth happily,
We know it is a must.
So, we gather courage
And stand before the foe,
If we ever will return
We really do not know.
So, take heart you soldiers,
And you, Mac Marine.
We at home
Understand
The strife that you have seen.
We know that you'll be different,
No human could be less.
We'll gather you
Into our hearts
And take away your stress.
* * *
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.
Lance Cpl. Philip Cashman
of Syracuse, N.Y., is overcome after a firefight April 10 in the streets of Baghdad.
