He wouldn’t last another day,

Such were his mortal wounds,

And there was nothing we could do but pray,

His pain would finish soon,

But when he asked me, “Am I dying Doc?”,

I smiled at him and lied,

“Hell, it’s just a flesh wound son”,

But as I spoke those words he died,

And as he took his final breath,

A teardrop left my eye

Somehow this one got to me,

Though I couldn’t tell you why,

He was just another soldier,

That had fallen to the guns,

I didn’t know him personally,

He was just somebody’s son,

That had tried to make a difference,

And put the world at piece,

Well maybe not the whole world,

But this part of it at least,

This dusty barren landscape,

That’s seen more blood than rain,

This final resting place of those,

Who sought to make a change,

And in doing so had given more,

Than we had the right to ask,

So many names remembered,

In their local epitaphs,

So many flag draped caskets,

And families to weep,

Those twenty-one gun volleys,

For those heroes now asleep,

And I’ve seen so many like them,

I thought my heart had turned to stone,

From years of fixing bullet holes,

Torn flesh and broken bones,

In battlefield conditions,

Amidst the cries of pain and fear,

I force another practiced smile,

That must hide the surgeon’s tears.

By S.E.Ralph

6-8-2008