The Soldier
I lit a Lucky Strike nervously,
as we approached the shore.
A wave of sickness swept over me,
I was terrified to the core.
My sergeant, Eugene Anderson,
a well respected soldier,
feared what was about to be done,
as he called his men to order.
I crept up the South-eastern beach,
My Thompson tight in hand,
The Japanese not yet in reach,
Silence from the island.
My comrades left and right of me,
Barely eighteen years old.
Too young to die “for their country”.
Too young to be so bold.
Artillery hidden in the hill,
let free an almighty roar.
I saw men, sliced by shrapnel,
fall bleeding to the floor.
Up ahead I saw an old friend,
Private Scotty Walker.
Swore he’d make it to the end,
For his girl in Florida.
The most valiant of marines,
Strike the Japanese cover.
To protect us men, still unseen,
They die with each other.
Private Walker is among them,
5 ft 6 inches small.
But when that bullet hit him,
He never looked so tall.
I should have stayed covered to fight,
and yet I ran to his side,
putting myself in plain sight,
of Japanese fury and pride.
I died lying beside my buddy
- a true hero of war,
wishing I was in the country,
that we were fighting for.
A ballad I had to write for a uni assignment. I like it but they rhyme and metre make it far too cheesy. But hey, I had no choice.
