Dawn in December - 1944
The man beside me breathed no more
at the light of the cold, clear dawn.
We had talked for hours the solemn eve --
at daybreak he was gone.
We had talked of rolling tons of steel
crashing through the pines,
of foemen in our uniforms
filtering through our lines;
of happiness afar at home
that hallowed mystic night;
and cozy children dreaming
of a sleigh in magic flight;
of a Child born near Jerusalem
ages, long ages, ago;
of the gentle truth He had spoken;
of three crosses in a row.
We had talked about the weather --
the cold, the fog, the snow;
of air support that never came;
of retreat before the foe.
He missed the golden sunrise,
felt not the limpid light,
heard not the throbbing sound of hope,
saw not the awesome sight:
Shining ships of silver
droning their cloudless way --
bright avenging bombers
aloft on Christmas Day.
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It Tolls for Thee
In time of peace, poignant
are rites held for the dead,
Tolling bells, processions, words,
precede the earthen bed.
In battle, customs alter --
no bell, parade, kind lie:
only relief and thankful thought,
"Ah, it was not I."
Rationing
Our ammunition rationed --
we counted every shell.
Fervent were the curses
aimed at one John L. . .
Mortars, cannons, howitzers
were mute behind our lines.
Stateside, men were idle
and idle were the mines.
John called out his miners;
they struck for higher pay,
while some of us were dying
on a dollar or two a day.
Our ammunition rationed --
we counted every shell.
Fervent were the curses
aimed at old Jon L. . .
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