Thread: War Poetry....

From ''The Rhymes of a a Red Cross Man.''




Jean Desprez

Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance,
Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;
A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.

With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,
And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;
Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.

"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said.
"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.
Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;
Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,
Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;
Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.
A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They weltered in their blood.

But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;
A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die."
He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . .
A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.

They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.
With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.
A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;
He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie.
"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;
"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."

With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,
And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,
And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,
The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.

But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,
Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:
"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ."
It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;
It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim
And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.

A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.
The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.
His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:
"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.
Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare;
Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,
And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand
The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.
And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,
Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."

They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die."
The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.
And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.
"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;
And I will murmur: Vive La France! and bless you ere I die."

Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;
Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.
He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;
And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!

The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this:
This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;
A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."

They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;
The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,
The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.
Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . .
"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.
Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . the Prussian Major dead!



--- Robert Service

NEVER MORE

1/ On fame’s eternal camping ground,
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards in Solemn sound,
The bivouac of the dead.


2/ ‘Tis night far down our Northern glens,
The autumn breezes sigh,
Afar the mountains echo back,
The curlews lonely cry.
The river onward flows the way
Of centuries before,
But tonight the waters seem to sob and whisper “Never More�.


3/ The Drums of death are sounding across the Northern Wave,
And there’s weeping ‘mong the Highland Homes,
For our beloved brave,
For those who knew and loved those hills,
In boyhood days of yore,
For those who died for home and King,
Amid the battles roar.

4/ Ah, where are now our kilted lads
So handsome brave and grand,
Who marched away for honours sake,
And love of this far land.
‘Tis o’er a narrow strip of blue,
Somewhere in blood soaked France.
They sleep the everlasting sleep
Behind the great advance.

Elsie Spence Rae Banff 7th November 1915.



The poem “Never More� was found in Corporal Angus Mackay Royal Scots, personal diary. He was killed in action during the Battle of Arras in 1917

Originally Posted by Jake-

From ''The Rhymes of a a Red Cross Man.''
Jean Desprez

Jake, Robert W Service has always been one of my favourites, I once owned an LP with a lot of the poems set to music by Country Joe MacDonald, must have been 1971 or something.

Wished I could find it again, I used to sing and play a lot of the songs before I joined up and even after all this time I can still hear it sometimes. Like 'Cannon King', 'Young fellow mi lad'. These days the songs have a richer meaning to me.

Kipling's poems are my favourite as is Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est. I also like this one:

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
- Laurence Binyon

Now all roads lead to France
And heavy is the tread
Of the living; but the dead
Returning lightly dance.
..........Roads, January 1916

EDWARD THOMAS (1878-1917)

Sent to me just before christmas

T'WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, HE LIVED ALL ALONE, IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE, MADE OF PLASTER AND STONE.

I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY, WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE, AND TO SEE JUST WHO, IN THIS HOME, DID LIVE.

I LOOKED ALL ABOUT, A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE, NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS, NOT EVEN A TREE.

NO STOCKING BY MANTLE, JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND, ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES, OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.

WITH MEDALS AND BADGES, AWARDS OF ALL KINDS, A SOBERING THOUGHT, CAME THROUGH MY MIND.

FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT, IT WAS DARK AND SO DREARY, I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER, ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.

THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING, SILENT, ALONE, CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR, IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.

THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE, BUT THE ROOM IN DISORDER, NOT HOW I PICTURED, A BRITISH ARMY SOLDIER.

WAS THIS THE HERO, OF WHOM I'D JUST READ? CURLED UP ON A PONCHO, THE FLOOR FOR A BED?

I REALIZED THE FAMILIES, THAT I SAW ON THIS NIGHT, OWED THEIR LIVES TO HIS LIKE, WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.

SOON ROUND THE WORLD, THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY, AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE, A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.

THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM, EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR, BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS, LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.

I COULDN'T HELP WONDER, HOW MANY LAY ALONE, ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE, IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.

THE VERY THOUGHT BROUGHT, A TEAR TO MY EYE, I DROPPED TO MY KNEES, AND STARTED TO CRY.

THE SOLDIER AWAKENED, AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE, "SANTA, DON'T CRY, THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;

I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM; I DON'T ASK FOR MORE, MY LIFE IS MY GOD, MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS."

THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER, AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP, I COULDN'T CONTROL IT, I CONTINUED TO WEEP.

I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS, SO SILENT AND STILL, AND BOTH WE SHIVERED, FROM THIS COLD NIGHT'S CHILL.

I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE, ON THAT COLD, DARK NIGHT, THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOUR, SO WILLING TO FIGHT.

THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER, WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE, WHISPERED, "CARRY ON SANTA, ITS CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE."

ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH, AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND, AND TO ALL A GOOD >NIGHT."

Originally Posted by JohnSmith

Originally Posted by tonto108

Kipling is the Man

Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here....."

A couple of years ago, a bloke by the name of Peter Pinder did his own version of Kiplings poem. At the time, I remember it hit the mark:-


Tommy in the 21st Century.

We aren't made for cool Britannia, we leave boot marks on the floor.
We don't walk like Peter Mandelson or talk quite like Jack Straw.
Call us "forces of conservatism" if it suits your turn
But we're off like some world fire brigade when the flash-points start to burn.
Yes it's Tommy this, an Tommy that an' spend less on defence.
But who walks the street of Basra when the air is getting tense?
When the air is getting tense boys, from Kabul to Kosovo
Who'll say goodbye to wife and kids, and shoulder pack and go.

The Queen she's sat in Windsor now for fifty years or more.
She'll see this government depart like other ones before.
And Blair and Bush and Chiric make their plans to no avail
But who remains to serve the Crown when politicians fail?
O it's Tommy change your values-now diversity's the game.
But when Christmas leave is cancelled, then whose tyrants are to blame?
There's tyrants in the mountains, boys and tyrants in the sands.
So farewell to wives and risk your lives for them in foreign lands.

Top post, and it got me thinking.

Kipling talked o' better food for 'im, an' schools, an' fires, an' all
the last time 'e wuz in Kabul, but them stories they wuz tall.
And nothing changed in all those years, cept more of 'em ‘as died
In the two world wars you think of and those countless ones besides
Yes its Tommy this an’ Tommy that and pat ‘im on the back
When ‘e goes to face your enemies and put in the attack.
But its sorry Mr Atkins when it’s time to pay ‘im back
Army ‘ospitals yer closing to save pennies on yer tax.

Palestine and then Malaya then Korea, off 'e went
Then to Suez and to Kenya and in Cyprus time 'e spent.
Borneo and Aden, Radfan, Oman and Dhofar
Northern Ireland, Yugoslavia and of course the Falklands War.
Yes its tommy this an tommy that an tommy does ‘is bit
When ‘e’s needed to go off and clean up other peoples shit
But its scrap old tommies unit when he needs a bit of kit
cos new rifles is expensive when there’s money to commit.

Well Tommy isn’t stupid, though you’d think so looking back
‘e’s just made of sterner stuff than you and tolerates the flak
But its time you held your own head up and shared the pride wiv ‘im
instead of hanging it in shame because you’ve done ‘im in agin.
Yes it’s tommy this and tommy that and tommy ‘e’s no fool
and the time has come for payback for all ‘e’s done for you.
Time to make sure ‘e’s looked after when ‘e’s serves and when ‘e’s through,
Shake ‘is ‘and and tell I’m thank you, and you’ll see him thank you too.

Punctuation is crap...poetry probably is too.

The Man In Black

Well you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colours on my back.
And why does my appearance seem to have a sombre tone?
Well there’s a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for soldiers everywhere,
Who have been hung out to dry by Tony Blair.
He uses them to prove that Britain fights above her weight
But he doesn’t care about the soldiers’ fate.

Blair needs more troops to quell Afghanistan.
He says he needs another thousand men.
But how long ‘til that thousand men becomes a thousand more?
And there’s no end to this god-awful war.

Another reason why I wear the black
Is for the f@cked-up mission in Iraq.
To go there in the first place was an international crime
But that won’t matter now, or the next time.

These never-ending tours are wrecking lives.
The married men don’t ever see their wives.
For God’s sake, let’s hope that we don’t declare war on Iran
And we lose another hundred fine young men.

The Defence Equipment Program is a joke
But funding it won’t garner any votes.
So when we go to war the kit’s too late, or not enough:
Another reason for my darkened cloth.

I’d like to wear a rainbow every day
And pretend the British Army is O.K.
But you and I know that would just make me a hypocrite
‘Cos the MoD is eyeball-deep in sh1t.

The day that I put on a suit of white
Is the day the British soldier’s treated right.
But he’s made to go to war with one arm tied behind his back
And that is why I am the man in black.

After Johnny Cash.

Gentlemen (and dare I say it, Ladies?)

I have penned, for your delictation a ditty based on the wonderful arrangement by Amy Winehouse known as 'Rehab'...

I claim all rights to this piece, and if anyone knows any Amy Winehouse 'Singalikes' then we should get this bad-boy track laid down...

Without further ado, I present to you...

"They tried to make me go to Baghdad"

They tried to make me go to Baghdad
I said no, no, no.
It’s under attack, I may not come back
I don’t know, know, know.

I hear all the time
That George and Tony think it’s fine
They’re trying to make me go to Baghdad
I wont go, go, go.

There’s got to be a better way
Than dodging IED’s all day
Cos there’s nothing, nothing there you can teach me
That I can’t learn, from half a world away

I don’t want my time to pass
Waitin’ for a bad guy to put a bullet in my ass

They tried to make me go to Baghdad
I said no, no, no.
It’s under attack, I may not come back
I don’t know, know, know.

I hear all the time
That George and Tony think it’s fine
They’re trying to make me go to Baghdad
I wont go, go, go.

Sky News says, why you think you here?
I say, I got no idea
Bombs n’ Mortars, landing round me daily
So I always keep my helmet near

M.O. says, I just think you’re depressed
No shit, is that a guess?!

They’re tryin’ to make me go to Baghdad
I said no, no, no.
It’s under attack, just cut me some slack
I wont go, go, go.

I don’t ever wanna leave here again
I just, ooo, I just need a friend
Im not gonna spend 10 months
Every time I hear a bang thinking is this the end?

It’s not that I’m terrified
It’s just I’m no use if I’ve died

They’re tryin’ to make me go to Baghdad
I said no, no, no.
It’s under attack, I may not come back
I don’t know, know, know.

I aint got the time,
And if Tony thinks it’s fine
Then he can fcuking go to Baghdad
Cos I wont go, go, go.

NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET

Sorry if I've missed a previous posting of this, but I came across it recently and it seemed too apt. Yet again, Kipling, the soldier's constant friend.

Mesopotamia (1917)

They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide –
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?

Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,
To confirm and re-establish each career?

Their lives cannot repay us – their death could not undo –
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

Hear the words I sing,
war's a horrid thing,
so I sing sing sing,
ding a ling a ling.

Pte Baldrick, Western Front, 1917

Originally Posted by geo7863

Originally Posted by geo7863

I remember seing one in Tommystruckstop in 96 cant remeber the whole 'poem' but one verse went something like this.

* rain & * snow,
* wind just blows and blows
* snot drips from your nose
* Bosnia

made oi laugh at the time

er the missing words sound like 'ducking'

It's this:
‘Fucking Bosnia’

The MFO went fucking missing
No fucking urinals to fucking piss in
Bogging toilets to fucking shit in
Fucking Bosnia

Fucking bog doors are fucking loose
Not a decent minge or fucking puss
This fucking place makes you cuss
Fucking Bosnia

If it doesn’t rain, it fucking snows
The fucking wind it fucking blows
The fucking snot drips off your nose
Fucking Bosnia

The fucking RAF are fucking naff
Can’t even have a fucking bath
This fucking place makes you laugh
Fucking Bosnia

All fucking work no fucking play
Weak excuse for extra pay
Ninety pence a fucking day
Fucking Bosnia

No fucking pub, no fucking bank
This fucking milk tastes fucking wank
Every face is fucking blank
Fucking Bosnia

Slivovitz is fucking dross
Lots of gorse and fucking moss
This fucking place is fucking toss
Fucking Bosnia

The fucking natives are fucking dense
The fucking birds are fucking bent
All my moneys fucking spent
Fucking Bosnia

The fucking wagons are fucking fucked
The fucking ‘phones always booked
The fucking salads over-cooked
Fucking Bosnia

Two weeks fucking R&R
I’ll spend it in the fucking bar
I want to fucking PVR
Fucking Bosnia

Time to do is fucking long
My fucking morale has fucking gone
My fucking life is going wrong
Fucking Bosnia

All around are hills and rock
Fuck all to do but play with your cock
Two beers allowed but not in the block
Fucking Bosnia

The fucking ‘phones aren’t fucking cheap
The fucking letters take a week
The fucking outlooks fucking bleak
Fucking Bosnia

Originally Posted by GwaiLo

Originally Posted by JohnSmith

Originally Posted by tonto108

Kipling is the Man

Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here....."

A couple of years ago, a bloke by the name of Peter Pinder did his own version of Kiplings poem. At the time, I remember it hit the mark:-


Tommy in the 21st Century.

We aren't made for cool Britannia, we leave boot marks on the floor.
We don't walk like Peter Mandelson or talk quite like Jack Straw.
Call us "forces of conservatism" if it suits your turn
But we're off like some world fire brigade when the flash-points start to burn.
Yes it's Tommy this, an Tommy that an' spend less on defence.
But who walks the street of Basra when the air is getting tense?
When the air is getting tense boys, from Kabul to Kosovo
Who'll say goodbye to wife and kids, and shoulder pack and go.

The Queen she's sat in Windsor now for fifty years or more.
She'll see this government depart like other ones before.
And Blair and Bush and Chiric make their plans to no avail
But who remains to serve the Crown when politicians fail?
O it's Tommy change your values-now diversity's the game.
But when Christmas leave is cancelled, then whose tyrants are to blame?
There's tyrants in the mountains, boys and tyrants in the sands.
So farewell to wives and risk your lives for them in foreign lands.

Top post, and it got me thinking.

Kipling talked o' better food for 'im, an' schools, an' fires, an' all
the last time 'e wuz in Kabul, but them stories they wuz tall.
And nothing changed in all those years, cept more of 'em ‘as died
In the two world wars you think of and those countless ones besides
Yes its Tommy this an’ Tommy that and pat ‘im on the back
When ‘e goes to face your enemies and put in the attack.
But its sorry Mr Atkins when it’s time to pay ‘im back
Army ‘ospitals yer closing to save pennies on yer tax.

Palestine and then Malaya then Korea, off 'e went
Then to Suez and to Kenya and in Cyprus time 'e spent.
Borneo and Aden, Radfan, Oman and Dhofar
Northern Ireland, Yugoslavia and of course the Falklands War.
Yes its tommy this an tommy that an tommy does ‘is bit
When ‘e’s needed to go off and clean up other peoples s***
But its scrap old tommies unit when he needs a bit of kit
cos new rifles is expensive when there’s money to commit.

Well Tommy isn’t stupid, though you’d think so looking back
‘e’s just made of sterner stuff than you and tolerates the flak
But its time you held your own head up and shared the pride wiv ‘im
instead of hanging it in shame because you’ve done ‘im in agin.
Yes it’s tommy this and tommy that and tommy ‘e’s no fool
and the time has come for payback for all ‘e’s done for you.
Time to make sure ‘e’s looked after when ‘e’s serves and when ‘e’s through,
Shake ‘is ‘and and tell I’m thank you, and you’ll see him thank you too.

Punctuation is crap...poetry probably is too.

Maybe it is GwaiLo.... maybe it is....

But you gave it a bloody good try.....

Something recent from Peter Pindar, on a similar theme:-


Economic forces.

Gordon Brown holds back on defence spending

(With apologies to Sir Walter Scott & his Bonny Dundee)

Though the Government pledged men to fight in Iraq
Many went without armour to cover their back
So some bought their own, because nothing comes free-
Life-saving investments that don’t come from me.

When Marines fight al-Qa’eda in Afghanistan,
Flying in by Apache to rescue a man,
They must cling to the outside. There turn out to be
Not enough helicopters provided by me.

Invocation of Churchill is not quite the same
As supplying the means to pursue the great game
If the Services come cap-in-hand, then they’re fools:
They may finish the work but I won’t buy the tools.

Last September I promised “whatever it takes�
For commitments abroad and security’s sakes;
What will our commitments continue to be
The day Number 10 is secured for me?


I wondered if I should post it..... BUT, Tonight, I'm too bloody drunk to care.

Poem about the Munsan-ni Combat Jump. Korean War Combat Jump
by: Peter Griffin

On Good Friday, March, 23rd , 1951,
A major Airborne assault, had begun....
145 combat cargo planes, filled the sky,
Thousands of communists, about to die....
3,300 troopers of the 187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team,
Did "hit the silk", each man, lean and mean....
Hitting the ground, their weapons readied,
Their enemy, 20,000 strong, there was a plenty....!
Behind the Paratroopers, came the heavy drops,
The 674th Field Artillery, battle ready, completed the lot.....
A first, this jump, made Airborne history,
But would "Operation Tomahawk", end in victory....?
Landing south of Munsan-ni, nine miles from North Korea,
Behind enemy lines, could they fulfill this panacea.....?
After securing the vast drop zone,
Fight, then advance, they set their tone......
For two bloody days, they kept this pitch,
Always in the open, no cover, nary a ditch....
Fight, hurry, reach Uijongbu, cut the enemy supply route,
Rain, wet ground, heavy, ,muddy, sloshing,-jump boots....
Day break, Easter Sunday, secure the hill ahead,
The cost, be much blood and dead....
In a horizontal formation, they moved out,
Crossing flat land, they suspected, a gory bout...
All of the sudden, all hell broke out,
Came swarms of enemy, "charge", in Chinese, they did shout....!
For awhile, the "Rakkasans", held their own,
Just too many bastards, how their numbers had grown.....!
Swinging and firing, "burp guns", from the hip,
Troopers falling, "slap, slap," as they were hit....!
Deadly enemy fire, slowing their advance,
"Keep moving forward", must take the chance.....!
The 187 opened up with a roar,
Killing Chinese, by the score....!
But still, troopers fell, with moans and shrieks,
Such depleted ranks, their outlook bleak....!
This bloody place, called Parun-ni,
Many a soldier, faced eternity.....
Not able to advance, nor retreat,
Suddenly artillery, boom, boom, repeat, repeat....!
The enemy dispersed and scurried away,
The 674th had saved the day....!
For a few moments, they caught their breath,
Not enough time, to eat or rest....
It rained, again, as the "Rakkasans" counter-attacked,
Avenging soldiers, they'd offer no slack.....!
The enemy dead, piled up before them,
Enemy strength, no longer a quorum.....!
Chasing the Chinese, up and over, the objective,
Now, total annihilation, the enemy, would be subjective....
To their front, loomed, another great hill,
Reaching its peak, they set up the kill.....
It's a mountain!, as they surveyed that rise,
A large land mass, met their eyes....!
With such depleted ranks, could they hold them back?
To their despair, bugles sounded a full attack....!
The entire rise, covered by charging Chinese,
Grey swarms, as far, as the eye could see....!
Wave after wave, the enemy attacked,
By sheer numbers, they'd break their backs.....!
With "Rakkasans" backs, thrown, against the wall,
Out of ammo, rifles swinging, many did fall....
Others firing their 45's, desperately, trying to stay alive,
Now facing, their annihilation, would any survive....?
Suddenly, support companies were on the scene,
Laying down murderous fire, heard the enemy scream....
Dropping their "burp guns", leaving their wounded and their dead,
Suffered much, as they fled.....
This is how Easter Sunday came to an end,
As "Rakkasans" gathered their injured and dead....
Down the hill, a priest is saying mass,
Survivors joined in, to the last....
After Service, finally, eating hot C's,
Soothing hot coffee, easing many a worry.....
But then came the order, "move it out",
Enough strength left for another bout...?
Heading back towards Munsan-ni,
Hills 519 and 322, entrenched, a hidden enemy....
As the paratroopers, scaled these mountains,
Mortars and machine guns, pounded them....
Over their heads, swish, swish, swish,
The 674th granting, yet another wish.....
The deadly mortars and guns, now silent,
The sounds of digging, becoming most evident....
At the top of these mountains, boot high snow,
By aerial observation, an entrenched enemy, clearly showed....
The paratroopers attacked, facing strong resistance,
Despite casualty, after casualty, they went the distance....
Finally, after much blood, carnage and death,
The 234th Chinese Regiment, was laid to rest....!
The surviving troopers, now realizing, they had won,
To North Korea, retreating communists, on the run....!
Catching them withdrawing, in an open ravine,
"Rakkasans" machine guns created a gory scene....
Destroying an entire army of North Korean and Chinese,
Total victory was achieved....!
Many of the "Steel Berets", had met their fate,
But quick to reach, Saint Peter's Gates....
As God welcomed these heroes inside,
You could hear him cry....
To you heroes, who did survive,
This horrific battle, just won't subside.....
But be it known, you have earned your place,
Your comrades await, your presence, inside the gates.....
The highest entity, did not forget your war,
As you know, he's been keeping score....
To his angels, he sings your praise,

In his book of the faithful, YOUR NAMES ENGRAVED.....

one that although comes from different decade and a place that few of us here it touched other than on TV.

These words never fail too move me and remind me of those we have left behind.

If you are able,
save them a place inside of you
and save one backward glance
when you are leaving
for the places they can no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say you loved them,
though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have left
and what they have taught you
with their dying
and keep it with your own.
And in that time when men decide
and feel safe to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace those
gentle heroes you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam


Michael O'Donnell was recommended for the Congressional Medal of Honor for
his actions on March 24, 1970. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying
Cross, the Air Medal, the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart as well as
promoted to the rank of Major following his loss incident. O'Donnell was
highly regarded by his friends in the "Bikinis." They knew him as a talented
singer, guitar player and poet. One of his poems has been widely
distributed, but few understand that the author remains missing.