By Fidel Ramos, Army
Writing Type: Poem
I carried him across my back, never knew his name.
Struggled two miles, across enemy-held terrain.
So weary, finally we had to stop and rest.
I leaned him against a tree, in this rainy, muddy mess.
I offered him a smoke, he murmured,
""Soon I'm going to die.""
Saw his blood-soaked clothes, closed his eyes and began to cry.
He refused to let me move him, begged me not to leave.
Told him I had no choice.
In desperation he grabbed and held my sleeve.
He'd taken massive wounds in this lousy, living hell.
Seeping from his body was death's sweet sickening smell.
His fading eyes sent a message and a plea.
Sadly, I understood what he was asking me.
I didn't want to think, just to get this last job done.
Slammed in the clip, raised my rifle, fired -
For him peace at last had come.
Notes: Pat Kranzow