The Old Soldier

I watched him shake his hand
And say a gruff goodbye
To his beloved grandson.
Old soldiers do not cry.
He fiercely rubbed his eyes
To stop unmanly tears,
As he recalled that other war
Of those now long past years.

If old men could go to war
He would gladly take the place
Of this young lad without a clue
Of what he is to face.
He recalled himself, the innocent,
Proudly going off to war;
To fight Hitler and his cronies,
Back in nineteen forty-four.

He arrived there just in time
In the battles to indulge;
In the bitterest of fighting
The big Battle of the Bulge.
Though he lost so many buddies,
He somehow stayed alive
Until the bullet with his name
In nineteen forty-five.

He felt his life-blood flowing,
All he could do was wait
For the pickup crew to come for him.
He hoped they weren't too late.
They came too late to save his leg.
Doctors said that it must go.
For him the war was over,
At least they told him so.

But he kept right on fighting
Every night in his dark dreams.
He could see the bullets flying
And could hear his comrades' screams.
He was glad to have his Mary,
Who held him in her arms
And told him it was over
As she soothed him with her charms.

He and Mary had two daughters.
They weren't blessed with a son.
Somehow he didn't mind because
He need not worry over one,
Who like him would have to go
To fight another mindless war.
At last the nightmares ended.
He was at peace once more.

His pride was in this grandson,
The son he hadn't had;
This boy who said he wanted
To be like his old granddad.
With one last wave, he limped away
With his Mary by his side.
His nightmares had not ended.
That night the soldier cried.

By:Joyuce 4/30/03