Remembering the Battle of the Bulge
Dec. 16, 1944 - 64 yrs ago...Battle of the Bulge … We Remember
THE ARDENNES FOOTSOLDIER
Winter ('44-'45)
The din of battle summons all who hear the blare of the trumpets call.
The soldier stands in ready ranks in rows beside the mighty tanks.
The battleground in Ardennes green,
now lain in winter's snow-white sheen
The stark bare foxhole is my bed with splintered fir boughs overhead.
Here I lie with body numbed protected from the German gun;
Through sleepless night I lie and pray thinking of the dawn of day.
My prayers that come from half closed mouth are seared with curse words that I shout.
From snowy lair I leave each day to meet the foe where death may lay.
From Bitter Woods to open field I run the gamut without shield
while shells of deadly eighty-eight before me burst to halt my gait.
The windblown snow blinds my eyes, the low hung fog dims the skies
with bandoleers across my back-- my body strains against my pack.
My trigger hand is numb and still
but ready, fixed and trained to kill.
I cross the field of a yesterday where soldier's frozen bodies lay-
Once in perfect battle lines they stood;
Now lay in grotesque forms like logs of wood.
Lord, that I may live this day; protect me from a soldier's grave
many are the battle dead o'er which some day
a soldier's flag shall wave.
Written by
John E. McAuliffe
M-Co; 347Reg't 87th Div.
Read MoreTHE ARDENNES FOOTSOLDIER
Winter ('44-'45)
The din of battle summons all who hear the blare of the trumpets call.
The soldier stands in ready ranks in rows beside the mighty tanks.
The battleground in Ardennes green,
now lain in winter's snow-white sheen
The stark bare foxhole is my bed with splintered fir boughs overhead.
Here I lie with body numbed protected from the German gun;
Through sleepless night I lie and pray thinking of the dawn of day.
My prayers that come from half closed mouth are seared with curse words that I shout.
From snowy lair I leave each day to meet the foe where death may lay.
From Bitter Woods to open field I run the gamut without shield
while shells of deadly eighty-eight before me burst to halt my gait.
The windblown snow blinds my eyes, the low hung fog dims the skies
with bandoleers across my back-- my body strains against my pack.
My trigger hand is numb and still
but ready, fixed and trained to kill.
I cross the field of a yesterday where soldier's frozen bodies lay-
Once in perfect battle lines they stood;
Now lay in grotesque forms like logs of wood.
Lord, that I may live this day; protect me from a soldier's grave
many are the battle dead o'er which some day
a soldier's flag shall wave.
Written by
John E. McAuliffe
M-Co; 347Reg't 87th Div.
