His young eyes, frightened, scanned the beach ahead
Rough sea made him nauseous; he vomited;
Either cause, wave, or fear, neither mattered
For on that beach, death or devil cast dread.
When bullets rip your flesh, does dying hurt,
Or do you slip in peace toward dazzling light?
Will Mama know I served with noble might?
Oh, God, I’m young! Bury me not ‘neath dirt.
Transport’s gate dropp’d; now’s the time, seeing red
Buddy Jake fell into a crimson wave
He carried on determined to be brave
Across that beach into hell’s show’r of lead
Gaining the crest, into that box he tossed
Grenades; it fell silent; this day not lost.
© 2017 David W. Palmer