Blood Trails and Bandages

We laughed at Death, were agents serving Death, for we

were warriors. He didn't have to pick and choose:

the enemy would sometimes win and sometimes lose;

but Death, in either case, would always have his way.

I can recall one evening when the enemy

prevailed. Beside a line of trees in ambush, lay

a single Viet Cong. I watched his hyphen string

of graceful green machine gun fire reach up and bring

a passing warplane down a gentle arc to where

a mountain-top-spectacular fireworks display

of burning fuel, and blasting rockets left a pair

of pilots' lives extinguished, Death's dark face a grin.

Another night indiff'rent Death was served again

when we pounced on a mortar flash and left behind

shrubs draped in shredded meat, and splintered bone, and hair.

A morning boat-crew sweep to see what they could find

revealed soiled bandage wraps and trails of blood

where Charlie'd dragged away his comrades through the mud.

The mortar site destroyed, and half a dozen dead,

we marvelled someone managed to survive this kind

of slaughter -- never mind that mothers, widows shed

a flood of grief, for these were only enemy.

In war there is no glory, Be Or Not to Be,

in killingdying, facing Death, but only in

how well we killingdying face him head-to-head.