The Night Patrol, Laos 1962
My point man had died where he stood.
The rest of my squad dove for cover.
My helmet had tumbled and fallen
and I clung to the ground like a lover.
The lifespan of a second Lieutenant
is measured in minutes I’m told.
I rolled and I rose to my knees.
I fired a mag from my piece.
There was movement out there in the trees.
Visceral fear shook my knees.
Novak had tossed a grenade.
In seconds a blast splintered wood.
The bark of three M-60's. then
cut through the growth like a scythe
The foe, in black silk pajamas,
In violence departed this life.
My radio man slid up beside me
Headquarters was on the phone.
I told them one dead and three wounded.
I sensed we were still not alone.
We established a defensive perimeter
and waited for dawn to arrive.
Our camouflage, soaked by the rain,
clung to those grunts still alive.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Added by Poetry Lover
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