The Sniper
by W.D. Cocker

Two hundred yards away he saw his head;
He raised his rifle, took quick aim and shot him.
Two hundred yards away the man dropped dead;
With bright exulting eye he turned and said,
'By Jove, I got him!'
And he was jubliant; had he not won
The meed of praise his comrades haste to pay?
He smiled; he could not see what he had done;
The dead man lay two hundred yards away.
He could not see the dead, reproachful eyes,
The youthful face which Death had not defiled
But had transfigured when he claimed his prize.
Had he seen this perhaps he had not smiled.
He could not see the woman as she wept
To the news two hundred miles away,
Or through his very dream she would have crept.
And into all his thoughts by night and day.
Two hundred yards away, and, bending o'er
A body in a trench, rough men proclaim
Sadly, that Fritz, the merry is no more.
(Or shall we call him Jack? It's all the same.)

The Spirit
Woodbine Willy, anonymous trench poetry

When there ain't no gal to kiss you,
And the postman seems to miss you,
And the fags have skipped an issue,
Carry on.

When ye've got an empty belly,
And the bulley's rotten smelly,
And you're shivering like a jelly,
Carry on.

When the Boche has done your chum in,
And the sergeant's done the rum in,
And there ain't no rations comin',
Carry on.

When the world is red and reeking,
And the shrapnel shells are shrieking,
And your blood is slowly leaking,
Carry on.

When the broken battered trenches,
Are like the bloody butchers' benches,
And the air is thick with stenches,
Carry on.

Carry on,
Though your pals are pale and wan,
And the hope of life is gone,
Carry on.
For to do more than you can,
Is to be a British man,
Not a rotten 'also ran,'
Carry on..

Bombed Last Night

Bombed last night, and bombed the night before.
Going to get bombed tonight if we never get bombed anymore.
When we're bombed, we're scared as we can be.
Can't stop the bombing from old Higher Germany.

They're warning us, they're warning us.
One shell hole for just the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us.
So one of us can fill it all alone.

Gassed last night, and gassed the night before.
Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore.
When we're gassed, we're sick as we can be.
For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me.

They're killing us, they're killing us.
One respirator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast.
So one of us can take it all alone.

Jacknastyface, I really liked the Ode to the Sten Gun. That was outstanding. As a aside my favorite Kipling book is, The Man Who Would Be King.

The Caisson Song

Over hill, over dale

We have hit the dusty trail,

And the Caissons go rolling along.

In and out, hear them shout,

Counter marching and right about,

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:

For it's hi! hi! hee!

In the field artillery,

count out your numbers loud and strong,two three for hut two three

And where e'er you go,

You will always know

That the Caissons go rolling along.

To the front, day and night,

where the doughboys dig and fight

See those Caissons go rolling along

Our barrage will be there,

Fired on the rockets glare,

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:  For it's hi! hi! hee!...

With the cavl'ry boot to boot,

we will join in the pursuit,

See those Caissons go rolling along

Action front, at a trot,

Volley fire with shell and shot,

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:  For it's hi! hi! hee!...

Should the foe penetrate,

every gunner lies in wait,

See those Caissons go rolling along

Fire at will, lay em' low,

never stop for any foe,

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:  For it's hi! hi! hee!...

In the storm, in the night,

Action left or action right

See those Caissons go rolling along

Limber front, limber rear,

Prepare to mount your cannoneer

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:  For it's hi! hi! hee!...

Was it high, was it low,

Tell me where did that one go?

As those Caissons go rolling along

Was it left, was it right,

Now we won't get home tonight

And those Caissons go rolling along.

Refrain:  For it's hi! hi! hee!...

But if fate, me should call,

and in action I should fall,

Keep those Caissons rolling along

Then in peace I'll abide,

when I take my final ride,

On a caisson that's rolling along.

“PREPARE FOR ACTION”

C. LeRoy Baldridge

Attack
Siegfried Sassoon
  
At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glowering sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in the mud. O Jesus, make it stop! 

Buttons
Carl Sandburg
  
I have been watching the war map slammed up for advertising in front of the newspaper office.
Buttons--red and yellow buttons--blue and black buttons--are shoved back and forth across the map.
 
A laughing young man, sunny with freckles,
Climbs a ladder, yells a joke to somebody in the crowd,
And then fixes a yellow button one inch west
And follows the yellow button with a black button one inch west.
 
(Ten thousand men and boys twist their bodies in a red soak along a river edge,
Gasping of wounds, calling for water, some rattling death in their throats.)
Who would guess what it cost to move two buttons one inch on the war map here in front of the newspaper office where the freckle-faced young man is laughing to us?

Enlistment
Sean Barnett (1984- )
   
I did it because I was a horrible student. I—
Did it for the money. I—
or maybe it was so you wouldn’t have to. I—
did it because I lived in an ’89 suburban
Parked in the alley behind a buddy’s house,
Where I bathed in their pool and
drank keystones in the moonlight. I—
did it because I,
didn't know what else to do.

Paratrooper
Sean Barnett (1984- )
  
Deteriorating cartilage,
torn meniscus,
bruising of the femur.
 
arthritic diagnosis,
disabling infusion
of shrapnel, peppered
by an explosion.
 
Then, my parachute’s
canopy partially inverted,
slamming me to
the weakened joint.
 
Early morning clicks,
occasional popping midday,
and an aching in the evening
only endured by way of
abusive substance.
 
And that’s the good knee.

The Family Has Been Informed
Roger Elkin (1943- )
  
not of the salt-mill of stars
in the bleak night skies
 
not of the chill mists slipping
from hillsides, and the eerie stillness
that falls over village, over road,
over goat and sheep trail,
the look-out posts
 
not of the taste of grit dust,
of sand on fear-dry lips,
or the way it clogs nostrils
and places veilings over eyes
so you understand why faces of locals
are swathed in scarves
 
not of the fact that there is not ever
the slightest chance you’d catch a glance
of a sniper’s profile, only fire flash
barking through darkness
from distant Kalashnikovs
 
not of the wide open faces of mates
collapsing to caricatures of string-puppets
sliding – slowly, slowly – out of action,
heads lolloping forward,
and limbs slithering
as when bullets bring into flower
their fleshy wounds,
startling, blood-fresh
 
no, not any of this:
all that goes without saying,
is part of the job
 
but of the fact that last night
on patrol in Helmand Province,
their son
became the one hundredth serviceman
so far this year 

From the Deck of a Transport
Margaret Elizabeth Sangster (1838-1912)
   
A Returning Soldier Speaks
I am coming back with a singing soul through the surge of the splendid sea,
Coming back to the land called home, and the love that used to be--
I am coming back through a flash of spray, through a conquered tempest's hum,
I am coming back, I am coming back.... But, God, do I want to come?
 
I have heard the shriek of the great shells speak to the dawn of a flaming day;
And a growling gun when the fight was won, and the twilight flickered gray,
I have seen men die with their chins raised high, and a curse that was half a prayer--
I have fought alone when a comrade's groan was tense on the blinding air.
 
I have tramped a road when a burning load was strapped to my aching back,
Through miles of mud that was streaked with blood, when my closing eyes turned back--
I have cried aloud to a heedless crowd of a God that they could not know,
And have knelt at night when the way was bright with a rocket's sullen glow.
 
I am going home through the whirling foam--home to her arms stretched wide--
I am going back to the beaten track and the sheltered fireside,
With grasping breath I have sneered at death, and have mocked at a shell's swift whirr,
And safe again, through the years of pain, I am going back--to her!
 
I am coming back with a singing soul through the surge of the splendid sea,
Coming back--but my singing soul will never be quite free--
For I have killed, and my heart has thrilled to the call of the battle hum....
I am coming back to the used-to-be--But, God, do I want to come?

Always have been fond of Kipling

Parade-Song of the Camp-Animals
"Her Majesty's Servants"--The Jungle Book

Elephants of the Gun-Teams
We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules,       
The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our knees.
We bowed our necks to service--they ne'er were loosed again,--
Make way there, way for the ten-foot teams
Of the Forty-Pounder train!

Gun-Bullocks

Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball,
And what they know of powder upsets them one and all;
Then we come into action and tug the guns again,--
Make way there, way for the twenty yoke
Of the Forty-Pounder train!

Cavalry Horses

By the brand on my withers, the finest of tunes
Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
And it's sweeter than "Stables" or "Water" to me,
The Cavalry Canter of "Bonnie Dundee!"

Then feed us and break us and handle and groom,
And give us good riders and plenty of room,
And launch us in column of squadron and see
The Way  of the War-horse to "Bonnie Dundee!"

Screw-Gun Mules

As me and my companions were scrambling up a hill,
The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still;
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, an  turn up everywhere 
And it's our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!
                         
Good luck to every sergeant, then, that lets us pick our road:
Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load!
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it's our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!

Commissariat Camels

We haven't a camelty tune of our own
To help us trollop along,
But every neck is a hair-trombone
(Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair-trombone! )
And this is our marching-song:                 
Can't! Don't! Shan't! Won't!
Pass it along the line!
Somebody's pack has slid from his back,
'Wish it were only mine!
Somebody's load has tipped off in the road--
Cheer for a halt and a row!
Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!
Somebody's catching it now!

All The Beasts Together

Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load.
See our line across the plain,
Like a heel-rope bent again,
Reaching, writhing, rolling far,
Sweeping all away to war!
While the men that walk beside,
Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
Cannot tell why we or they
March and suffer day by day.
Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load!

from the 'Nam

SARGE
This poem is dedicated to Sgt Mjr Bill Dahner (Ret.)CIB two with two stars

Thinking back to the mud and blood
Mortars hitting with a sloshing thud.
Sarge yelling and chewing gum
Bullets telling whose time had come.

"You sorry ****, hunker down! Get out of sight!
If you don't, we'll eat your rations tonight!"
Listen to him, listen to Sarge
Chewing gum, standing large.

"Pick your targets! Fire true and slow!
Let those other **** know
We won't move and we don't care
This is our piece of Nam we won't share."

Later when the firings done
And whatever victory that was won, won,
We sit and scrap our cans. We laugh,
Sarge standing there chewing gum and giving gaff.

R.E. HOURICH

Some called me medic...others just called me Doc

In all the professions
I could have chosen to be
None gave me more
Honor or pride
or sense of responsibility.
Than to be called their
Medic or Bac Si or Doc
To the 2nd of the 47th Infantry.
Recon, the Scouts,
A part of
Headquarters Company.
The men were daring, young and strong
We drank our beer and sang our songs
As we rode upon our tracks
In the paddies of solid green.
Each man was tested and a warrior
named attached
Cowboy, Pimp, Babysun, Slim, Pineapple,
Repro-man, Uncle 5, Buddha,
Thurston Howell the third and Killer II
Then there was the Tasmanian Devil too
....Just to name a few.
We  became fast friends
And they learned to trust me too
A name given to just a chosen few
They just called me...Doc Pardue
It was earned in battle
Fighting by their side .
They taught me about the living and the dying
And the surviving too.
It has been many years since
Our time in Vietnam
I've been known by many names since
But the one I learned to cherish most
Was given long ago
By my friends and brothers dressed in battle green
It's simply...Doc Pardue

A Piece of Sky Without Bombs
by Lam Thi My Da

Your friends said that you, a roadbuilder,
had such love for our country, you rushed
down the trail that night, waving your torch
to save the convoy, calling the bombs down on yourself.

We passed by the spot where you died,
tried to picture the young girl you once had been.
We pitched stones up on the barren grave,
adding our love to a rising pile of stone.

I gaze into the center of the crater
where you died and saw the sky in the pool
of rain water. Our country is so kind:
water from the sky washes the pain away.

Now you rest deep in the ground,
quiet as the sky that rests in the crater.
At night your soul pours down,
bright as the stars.

I wonder, could it be your soft skin
changed into columns of white clouds?
Could it be that when we passed that day,
it was not the sun but your heart breaking through?

This jungle trail now bears your name;
the skies reach down to your death and touch it;
and we, who never saw your face,
each wear a trace of you, bright on our cheek.

(Translated by Ngo Vinh Hai and Kevin Bowen)
(contibutor's note: this poem was written by a N.Vietnamese female soldier about the death of a fellow female soldier on the Ho Chi Minh Trail)

Spoken From the Hedgerows    
by Jorie Graham 

 
To bring back a time and place.
A feeling. As in "we are all in this
together." Or "the United States and her allies

fought for Freedom." To bring back.

The experience of killing and getting killed.
Get missed. Get hit. Sun—is it with us. Holiday,

are you with us on this beach today.
Hemisphere of one, my soul, paratrooper,
greatness I house in my body, deepset, my

hands on these triggers—who once could outrun
his brother—consumed with fellow-feeling like a madness that does not
                                                           must not,
lower its pitch—going to the meeting place,

the spire of the church in Vierville, seen on aerial maps, visible from
                                                  eighteen miles out,
if it weren't for fog, and smoke, and groundmist,
the meeting place, the appointed time surging in me,

needing to be pierced—but not me—not me—

only those to the left and right of me—

permit me to let you see me—

Me. Driven half mad but still in biography.
By the shared misery of. Hatred. Training. Trust. Fear.
Listening to the chatter each night of those who survived the day.

There is no other human relationship like it.
At its heart comradeship is an ecstasy.
You will die for an other. You will not consider it a personal

loss. Private Kurt Gabel, 513 Parachute Infantry Regiment—
"The three of us Jake, Joe and I became an entity.
An entity—never to be relinquished, never to be

repeated. An entity is where a man literally insists
on going hungry for another. A man insists on dying for
an other. Protect. Bail out. No regard to

consequence. A mystical concoction." A last piece
of bread. And gladly. You must understand what is meant by
gladly. All armies throughout history have tried

to create this bond among their men. Few succeeded as well
as  the paratroop infantry of the U.S. Army,
Rifle Company E, 506th.

Fussell: It can't happen to me. It can happen to me. It is
going to happen to me. Nothing
is going to prevent it.

Webster (to his parents): I am living on borrowed time—
I do not think I shall live through the next jump.
If I don't come back, try not to take it too hard.

I wish I could persuade you to regard  death
as casually as we do over here. In the heat of it
you expect it, you are expecting it, you are not surprised

by anything anymore, not surprised when your friend
is machine-gunned in the face. It's not like your life, at home,
where death is so unexpected. (And to mother):

would you prefer for someone else's son to die in the mud?
And there is no way out short of the end of war or the loss
of limb. Any other wound is patched up and you're sent back

to the front. This wound which almost killed him
healed up as well and he went back.
He never volunteered. One cannot volunteer.

If death comes, friend, let it come quick.
And don't play the hero, there is no past or future. Don't play
the hero. Ok. Let's go. Move out. Say goodbye.

"There's a mission today"

by S/Sgt. Edward A. Greenlaw of Tacoma, Washington - North 1 Compound
 

There's a mission today - you're scheduled to fly.
So you wait by the ship and look at the sky.
It's cloudy up there and the wind starts to blow.
But the mission ain't scrubbed - get in and go.

Your nerves are on edge, you cuss and you sweat,
if this damned ship flies you lose your bet.
But the ship takes off and you settle down
and cast a longing glance at that lovely ground.

The ship will fly while the engines run
so you take your post at your trusty gun
and check to see if it's working right.
If the round ain't short nor the head space tight.

You check your chute and try your phone
It doesn't work and you have a groan
You struggle and test with the blasted thing
And it's finally fixed for you hear it sing

You call the pilot and tell him you're set
And the radioman breaks in on the net.
The rest of the crew all check in turn
Except the nose, they'll never learn.

You've joined your squadron and joined your group
the vapor trails are as thick as soup.
Your breath comes short and you check your hose
and cuss like hell cause the damn thing's froze.

You clear the ice and you breathe again
It's the life for birds - but not for man.
Your face is cold and your masks too tight
so you pull it off and fix it right.

You're climbing fast as you look behind
To see if the Squadron's all in line.
Formation looks good and is staying tight
So you figure everything's going all right.

The hours pass slow till you're nearly there
Your eyes smart and burn from the ceaseless glare
Of a sun that's cold as a chunk of ice
For the temperature is far from nice.

You've never seen it so damned cold.
It tightens you up with a square hold.
Your fingers freeze to the grips of your guns.
You wonder who said that flying is fun.

But you stick it out and stay at your post
If you leave your gun the reports read "lost"
If heaven's this cold you'd choose to dwell
In the hottest furnace they've got in H*ll.

The pilot call that your getting close
Re-check your guns and oxygen hose.
You pull your helmet and flak suit tight
And pray to God that all goes right.

Navigator calls you're on the I.P.
But your eyes are froze and cannot see.
So you pull out the ice and frozen lash
And you see a fighter come in like a flash.

You grab your gun and fire a burst
The b*stard's gone down but he's raised a thirst
That burns in your throat and your mouth goes dry
As you spot another way off in the sky.

You line him up in the ring of your sight
And get all set for a d*mn good fight.
He's coming in and doesn't stop.
Till you hear the upper start to pop.

Then there's  a puff and a burst of flame
And you add that fighter to your engineer's claim.
Now your rid of two but you call in more
You cuss and pray that their aim is poor.

It makes you mad and you feel mean
But you think of home and places you've been.
It's just a thought and it passes fast
And you fire like H*ll as a Jerry dives past.

You never know if you knocked him down
No time to watch him, keep looking around.
They're swarming  now like angry bees
A "twenty" come through and you feel its breeze.

They make their attacks in a steady pass
And you're willing to bet they've got your *ss
But you track 'em in and get their range
You're enjoying yourself 'tho that sounds strange.

It's fifty below but your wringing wet
And your forehead's covered with frozen sweat.
With a final pass the Jerries drop back.
Then you know d*mn well you're heading for flak.

It's coming up now and bursting fast
And coming so close you feel its blast.
So you make yourself small and try to pray
And hope that this is your lucky day.

Your bombardier calls, you're on the run
You wait to hear that the job is done.
The "bombs away" comes over the wire
But you're watching a ship go down on fire.

The stuff is still bursting thick and black
And you cuss the guy that invented flak.
It pounds on the ship like an angry surf.
You're scared to h*ll, but you keep you're nerve.

You're skipper is wise, he's dodging the stuff
But there in the tail the riding is rough.
The ship is hit cause you feel the lurch.
Your guns swing free as you lose your perch.

You feel her lurch and start to drop
And over the 'phone comes "feather the prop!"
Smoke streams back from Number Two
But your pilot is quick and pulls her through.

Now she's under control and flying level
That skipper of yours is a cool headed devil.
You're out of the flak and the ship still flies
And you look behind at the smoky skies.

The group behind is in flak now
And catching H*ll from stern to bow.
You watch two ships go falling down
They both blow up when they hit the ground.

But you're feeling good 'cause you've got your hide
You've beat the flak, no fighters in sight.
There's still three engines running good
You're heading for home and think of food.

The pilot calls at twelve thousand feet
Pull off your mask and turn down the heat.
You strike a match and light a fag
Inhale deep that first sweet drag.

Soon you're over the field and circling round
Then into the pattern and on the ground.
Then take her up to the parking place
You've made it again with the good Lord's grace.

Clear your gun and raise up its cover
Then scramble out to look her over.
The ground crews there with a silly grin
They ask "Where in H*ll have you been?"

She's full of holes from nose to tail
But she went and came and didn't fail.
Just above where your head has been
You could drive a truck thru the vertical fin.

But it's time to brief so you grab a truck
And you realize you've had good luck.
Talk the mission over on the trip to group
Where S-2 briefs and gets your "poop".

Your job is done so down to the tent
Then head for chow like a man h*ll bent.
Those empty seats sort of spoil the meal
You've lost some pals, but it doesn't seem real.

You wait a while and watch the door
But they don't come back like they've done before.
So you try to forget it and think of tomorrow
You've paid for the flight but not the sorrow.

It's cloudy tonight and looks like rain
But the bulletin board reads "OP" again.
The target tomorrow? It's hard to say
Sweat it out again in the usual way.

This story goes on, it has no end
You lose a ship and you lose a friend.
Maybe some day you won't come back
And they'll chalk you up to 'fighters and flak'.

It's a hell of a life and you feel the strain
But you'd do the whole thing over again.
Still you pray for the day when there'll be no war
So you can see what in h*ll you've been fighting for.

You're doing your job. You're winning the fight
Doing your best to make things right.
Just hope you'll live thru it and someday see
That "lasting peace in a world that's free" -

You can always tell a Gunner by his greasy hands and vacant stare - and
You can always tell a Bombardier by his manners debonair - and
You can always tell a Navigator by his pencils books and such - and
You can always tell a Pilot - but you can never tell him much.

by: George Lesko                                  

An Escort of P-38's - by: Tech. Sgt. Robert H. Bryson (KIA on a mission to Messina)

(The line re being rejected apparently referred to his draft board.)

Oh, Hedy Lamarr is a beautiful gal and Madeleine Carroll is too;
But you'll find, if you query, a different theory amongst any bomber crew.
For the loveliest thing of which one could sing (this side of the Heavenly gates)
Is no blonde or brunette of the Hollywood set,
                                          but an escort of P-38s
 
Yes, in the days that have passed when the tables were masses of glasses of Scotch or champagne,
It's quite true the sight was a thing to delight us, intent on feeling no pain.
But no longer the same, nowadays in this game, when we head north from Messina Straits
Take the sparkling wine........and every time just make mine
                                         an escort of P-38s
 
Byron, Shelley and Keats ran a dozen dead heats describing the view from the hills
Of the valleys in May when the winds gently sway an army of bright daffodils.
Take the daffodils, Byron; the wild flowers, Shelley; yours is the myrtle, friend Keats.
Just reserve me those cuties, American beauties............
                                          an escort of P-38s
 
Sure we're braver than hell; on the ground all is swell. In the air it's a different story.
We sweat out our track through the fighters and flak - we're will to split up the glory.
Well, they wouldn't reject us so Heaven protect us and until this shooting abates
Give us the courage to fight 'em...and one other small item,
                                           an escort of P-38s

This is a poem about/around WW1 time frame, since I'm a animal lover as well I really enjoy this poem