(Based on a story idea by Joe Kubert)

It’s Belgium ’44, the world’s at war.

The yuletide came and went, but brought no joy.

The Bulge is still a challenged corridor,

 yet with their progress troops now redeploy.                               4

 

And so the Private finds himself alone.

Awareness has returned and with it pain.

It must be night, he thinks, while lying prone,

for nothing can be seen of all the slain.                                         8

 

But then the man looks to the Prussian skies

and sees no cloud or brilliant Milky Way.

He holds his hand before his face and cries;

the G. I. Joe is blind to his dismay.                                               12

 

His eyes are caked with blood where shrapnel struck.

He scarce recalls the moment he was hit.

As only sight is hurt, he counts it luck.

Grenades are often indiscriminate.                                              16

 

His hearing seems acute and splits his head,

though silence is the loudest sound of all.

Would that the blast had taken it instead,

but only children spill their milk and bawl.                                     20

 

He’ll play the hand he’s dealt and place his bet.

Aught else is fancy and a squandered hope.

Thence on his hands and knees without regret

he leaves that fraud behind and starts to grope.                         24

 

The snow was mud beneath the daytime heat,

but now it freezes firm without the light.

An indicator strong, if incomplete,

that he’s in darkness, as his foe, at night.                                     28

 

He’s stalked Wisconsin deer and knows Death’s smell,

but there’s a pungent difference hov’ring near

 and mixed with Death is Life spite this bleak Hell

may bury it beyond his scope to hear.                                           32

 

Or will it? Now he hears that very sound.

A noise as clear as brass blown cuts the air,

though thin and seeming level with the ground.

A moan from several yards floats choked and spare.                  36

 

The Private worms his way through razor wire

and cannot safeguard hands and knees from hurt,

but trusting that the man’s affair is dire

he will not let him die alone in dirt.                                                  40

 

He comes upon the body draped in snow.

The poor man is so cold it does not melt.

He’ll die of frost and harrowingly slow,

for all that insulates is worn out felt.                                                 44

 

The injured man but scarcely stirs and moans

until the snow is brushed from off his legs.

And then the sound he makes could freeze men’s bones.

It gurgles as a drowning man who begs.                                        48

 

“Lie easy Joe, I’m here and by your side.

I’m gonna get you out of this, no lie.

His speech is hushed, for he would try and hide.

He fears he cannot know if Krauts are nigh.                                  52

 

An afterthought, he pats his forty five.

The wounded man draws back in sudden fear.

“Don’t worry pal, we’re both of us alive

and it’s my aim to help you persevere.”                                          56

 

Cat’s got his tongue, he thinks, or maybe worse.

“Now listen, I can’t see a cussed thing,

but let me ‘look’ you over like a nurse.

I’ll be right gentle. If I’m not just sing.”                                              60

 

But when the Private reaches for his head,

two mighty hands take his and guide with care.

The soldier tastes his bile as he is led

to where a jaw should be and finds but air.                                   64

 

“Sweet mother, you can’t talk and I can’t see,

but listen both my legs are still intact

and I’m a midwest farm boy, part Shawnee.

I’m gonna be your legs and that’s a fact.                                       68

 

You be my eyes and we’ll soon pretty sit,

so don’t you die before I save your butt.”

He finds a small syrette inside his kit

and gives the morphine to the man uncut.                                     72

 

“Are we alone?” The cripple nods his head.

With hands upon his face the Private ‘sees’.

“Then this will hurt, but prove that you ain’t dead.

Be quiet and we’ll take it in degrees.”                                           76

 

And so the Private hoists him to his back

to start the long, slow slog into the west.

With taps and tugs the mute points out the track

while sturdy Yankee legs pursue their quest.                                80

 

The night becomes as cold as on his farm

through winters growing up that he recalls,

but weak he knows a new, distinct alarm

and doubts he’ll get too far before he falls.                                   84

 

The broken ground is slick and treacherous.

His ‘eyes’ direct the legs as well they can,

but can’t relieve them from the tedious

and painful stumbles over such a span.                                         88

 

Though drenched in sweat the Private’s growing cold.

His speech is spare, his charge begins to shake.

The trials are fast becoming manifold,

but not so easy will the farm boy break.                                         92

 

One hour then and now a longer one.

They find no food or water on the dead

and even they grow scarce ‘til there are none.

The Private holds at bay a creeping dread.                                  96

 

He’d trudged into the lands his Allies hold,

convinced they’ll come upon a small patrol,

but he cannot out last the bitter cold.

The longer he’s exposed the worse the toll.                                100

 

No trenches had been delved across his way,

but several times a fox hole beckoned wide.

He knew that should attention wax blasé

no will he’d have to scale the frozen side.                                   104

 

No sound of man, machine or gun’s report

did drift upon the chill expanding breeze.

He falters more and more and must resort

to stretches on all fours as muscles seize.                                  108

 

Yet never does the slightest thought intrude

that he’ll forsake the comrade in his arms.

He’s weeping in his sightless solitude

and knows he’ll never see Wisconsin farms.                              112

 

Somewhere nigh midnight all the signals cease.

The Private does not notice it at all.

As he has done for hours without peace,

so does he carry on to rise and fall.                                             116

 

At last he falls and cannot rise again.

His charge has rolled away and silent still.

The soldier feels his buoyancy as sin

and so he prays as he grows ever chill.                                       120

 

“Forgive me, Father, for I now must fail.

You only set such tasks that we can do,

but I no more can counteract this scale.

I tried, my friend. I hope you know it’s true.”                                 124

 

Then blackness claims him and in dark he dreams.

He hears a voice, but does not understand.

Awash in voices, naught is what it seems.

He gropes and grapples sinking into sand.                                 128

 

“This one’s alive, but barely.” Says one voice.

“How ‘bout the one he carried?” One replied.

“The way I see, the boy made quite a choice,

but this poor Nazi officer has died.”                                              132