War Poetry.

My son, who is twelve, was studying war poetry leading up to Remembrance Day this year.
After reading various poems, they were asked to write their own.
This is what he wrote:

Chinooks Fly

Chinooks fly,
Brave boys die,
Fighting for a stranger's freedom

I.E.Ds explode,
Guns reload,
Airstrikes rock the ground

For some religion,
Or dumb guy's decision,
Innocent people die

Coffins fly home,
Soldiers write home,
Wondering if they'll

Ever come back
Well done. :thumb:
There’s some thought behind it
My own issue L1A1 was one of the very early wood stocked ones, all the blacking had worn off, but she was wonderfully accurate. Slowly they took away the wooden stocked ones and issued the newer plastic stocked type, mine was the last to go. I was so annoyed they replaced my rifle, but the new'un turned out to be a good'un, BUT never as good as my old rifle.

They must have got fed up hearing me moan about taking my old rifle away, I was given a GPMG.
Last edited:
Flying Hero

Flying Hero

© Michael Sander

For all service members who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Flying Hero

You came home yesterday.
On that silver winged bird.
It wasn't that long ago that you left.
You are back so soon.
But you have done so much.
The colors you are wearing, so familiar.
The colors explain everything.
Why you left, the price you paid, the sacrifice you made.
Pride. Honor. Freedom.
You have made your mark hero.
The colors you wear draped over your casket tell your story.
You did it for me.
You did it for our country.
You did it for FREEDOM.
You will never be seen as a fallen hero.
You will forever fly proud.
As will the colors you died for.
The Trail

We who have come all ways into the city,
Over the cratered roads, down the scorched hills,
Would be omitted from the ritual
That build legends where we have killed.

We see the great house open by the river,
Candles still set that never pierced the gloom;
The jeweled lady sprawled indifferent
In her bright, acrid room.

The roadside Christ, in wood, modelling torture;
The clouded eyes looking below his grief;
The scattered children in the summer orchard
Under the raked leaves.

The steel; the tangled walls. Then we are gone,
Our ears stopped to the eloquence of death
In cities that the sun will turn to bone
And the late rain to earth.

The stone-eyed birds will pace the dusty fountain,
The sun cast the dog’s shadow in the square,
The wind from the deserted mountain
Long puzzle the empty air,

And you will come, historian and traveler,
And speak our names, and say we did not fail,
And say: The monster here fled from his cavern;
Here – here is his trail.

-Edward Weismiller, April 1945

I was looking through some old New Yorker Magazines and came upon this poem in an April 1945 edition. Turns out that Weismiller was an US Marine and member of the OSS during the occupation of Germany in the spring of 1945. I find it interesting that he found the time to contribute to a magazine during his duties of running German agents before and after the fall of the Nazi Regime.
Last edited: