by Victor J. Miller
Sgt., Co. E, 5th Ranger Battalion, U.S.A.
A chill breeze swept o'er me last night, it made me look around.
There I saw eight duffel bags tossed upon the ground.
Yes, eight sodden duffel bags thrown up in a stack-
The only outward sign there was that we didn't all get back.
As I gazed at those mute duffel bags, I slipped into a trance.
I thought of all my comrades who would nevermore leave France.
There was "Tex"-a "new man"-I had always thought he'd scare;
But when the lead was flying thick, "Tex" was right in there.
There was also Little Shorty, "Mister Five-by-Five".
He was the butt of all our jokes, while he was still alive.
A cook came to our company, he didn't look for fame.
He fought and died to help us out, and I never knew his name.
Don't forget Poncho, foreign born, a native of Old Spain.
He gave his all to Uncle Sam, would we all do the same?
Our machine gun squad lay in a hole, fighting side by side.
Then mortar shells rained all around, and both of them, they died.
I know duffel bags aren't human; but they speak this tale of woe:
"We shall always fight with might for right, but some of us must go".
----- Victor J. 'Baseplate' Miller
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