His Last Hand

Betio Island, the Aftermath on Tarawa Atoll, November 23, 1943

You son-of-a-bitch, you owed me some,

And now I’ll never get it.

Don’t think ‘cause you’re laying there

Without a sound that you’re let off so easy.

No chance of it, I say,

You welching son-of-a-bitch.

It’s quiet now that Betio’s crushed,

Now that the battle cry has hushed.

Now that the cocoanut wall is cleared

Of the piles of bloody martyrs.

And you tailed me, you did

With your mortar stand,

And I knew you were there, so I shouted,

“Stay down and off the beach with you.”

But what beach is there here

On this coral strip,

Where the flesh is torn and the helmets rip,

Where the torsos pile against the logs

And the bullets fly through shelling fogs.

I fell then. Nothing much compared to most.

I caught a buzzer in my shin.

In fact, pay the ticket and sing the tune,

That buzzer is a million dollar wound.

Fat chance with no escape

From this lagoon in the shell case fire.

But now we’ve won it, this blood soaked beach,

Where I now find you lying in the breach,

And you owe me for that fucking ace-in-the hole

That I squirreled away ‘neath my poker face,

And you fell for it, you son-of-a-bitch,

Only to trump me without a stitch.

You were behind me, you know,

And then you were not,

And I called to you, but no reply came.

Only my own false hopes and chances.

Now there’s the hush and the taps and the ponchos,

The prayers from the chaplain, the spiel from the honchos,

But who’s gonna give me the pot that you owe?

Maybe I should just cut off your toe.

Then they come — the registration crew,

And they drop you into Betio’s grip.

The pain in my passport wound assaults,

And I weep for that money you owe me.

Oh Hell, get your ass up as often you did.

Slap my back silly as you had every day.

What will I do in the States without you,

My buddy, my pal, my bucking mule,

Who’d tell me its white, when I could see black,

Who’d bum my butts from morning to rack

And sing off-tune ditties and fall off your bunk,

Get your ass up now. Get out of this funk.

Long lines of ponchos, emptied to trench.

Makeshift the crosses come into view.

I guess I won’t see your owings — not a sou,

Now that you’re gone and I finally owe you —

You, son-of-a . . . son-of-a-bitch.

from Pacific Crimson - Forget Me Not