I wrote this poem for my beloved wife, while apart from her in Afghanistan.
The following poem is attributed to the Men of Able Company 1-506th who have paid the ultimate sacrifice from WWII all the way through Vietnam until today in Chamkani, Afghanistan.
In times that are rooted in great desolation,
A soldier stands to defend a nation.
We fight for freedom and security,
In a land that is fraught with great impurity.
A country that survived a civil war,
Also lived to fight several more.
We sing of freedom, justice, and love,
But in this decrepit reality we have none of the above.
The code of morals, of ethics, our creed,
Has been watered down out of malice and greed.
Just like the senators of ancient Rome,
Ours too should rebel in our sad little home.
The ideas our forefathers started in this place,
Have weathered away like Mount Rushmore’s stony face.
With a fake smile and change for the worse,
They have slowly dried up this country’s purse.
And all we can do is hope and pray,
That some brave man will save the day.
A soldier in another place,
With a look of sadness on his face.
He learns to walk in other lands,
And shoot the gun that is in his hands.
He leads a life of solitude and mistrust,
Because of a far away land dry as dust.
He has seen things that others have not,
He has been to war he has earned his shot.
A shot at freedom away from it all,
Not down the street or up the hall.
But far away in the mountains of peace,
He finds some time to settle his lease.
A contract of duty and hope and pride,
Has elapsed over the years like a cold hard tide.
The waves of the years will pound away,
And wear down the soldier who will not sway.
He will always stand tall and loud and glad,
For he has been made great, he is ironclad.
A hero to many, a man just to some,
Always beating that stone cold drum.
In the future still shrouded in mystery,
He looks back at that sad real history.
He looks in disbelief at the memories he held,
Of the lives that were lost, and the tears that swelled.
He hopes to become dear Jesus what you desire,
As he slowly climbs higher and higher.
Up into the wild blue yonder,
He looks and prays and slowly ponders.
And until dear Lord at Heaven’s gate,
A prayerful thought in a melodious state.
A powerful gate gleaming in the sun,
A gateway to hope when war is done.
In a country that is so out of date
the only message they preach is hate.
When the devil speaks in hushed tones,
Among the people there are silent moans.
They moan because they are not free,
Although they forever yearn to be.
These disciplined fighters who teach this hate,
Consider themselves the bringers of fate.
This fate they bring is death to us all,
That do not heed their holy call.
Their skills are honed by years of war,
Which is something I have never seen before.
They patiently wait for us to make
that ever so deadly first mistake.
These mistakes are costly to each side,
And is something I can not abide.
Death is a thing we all must see,
But not this far from the land of the free.
We ask each other when will they fail,
But alas, they will never to no avail.
They will never leave this land I fear,
Because it is a cause that they hold dear.
The town of Yahya Khel forever will resemble Hell.
So the guard positions that we have at our small base are not as rough as the ones that I describe in this poem but you get the idea:
light. The soldiers silently put