This is the fourth page of my poems.  
Please note this material is copywrited.  
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they have been edited.
  Thank you.
  Harry H. Smith

Me thinks it was a little Isle,
	Not worth one red cent.
Our days and nights were troubled there,
	Frustration and anger pent.

To move by day was madness,
	Sniper fire from left and right.
Capn' says the best thing for us to do,
	Is only move at night.

The logic of this idea
	Seemed to us just fine;
But when we stopped to take a break,
	Our corpsman stepped out of line.

Now we can only imagine how it felt,
	To awaken all alone;
The desperation and numbing fear,
	That can chill one to the bone.

Some of us wanted to go back,
	But Capn' he said "no".
The best thing is to wait till morning,
	Then we all will go.

So we lay and listened to the fight,
	Till around four in the morn';
That pitiful pistol pop, a "blooper" round,
		 then silence,
	And hopelessness was born.

Finally, slowly the sun arose,
	Insult was added to injury;
The gruesome events of that morning is yet,
	Another story burned in my memory.

We found our Corpsman as expected,
	Stripped of his gear and dead.
The blooper round had hit his shoulder,
	Then proceeded to unwrap his head.

It had been the Capn's decision,
	But was it wrong or right?
I feel so damned guilty about
	Abandoning our Corpsman that night.

Finally, slowly the sun arose,
     With it our troubles soon began.
Seems that when it rains, it pours;
     Just because it can.

I had laid awake most the night,
     And I was feeling dog tired.
One of our Corpsman had been left behind;
     I'd listened to each shot fired.

I lay there on my liner aching,
     Dreading to arise.
Knowing this day would come to be,
     Just another one to despise.

What happened next is one,
     Of the basics of my ire.
The inexcusable and incompetent phrase,
     Known as friendly fire.

One of the rounds hit at the Sergeant's feet,
     And shattered the morning air.
Everything else went quickly downhill,
     From that point there.

I had stayed next to "Shorty",
     To help him man the radio;
Before I could grab it he was hollerin' cease fire,
     or at the very least, he thought so.

The radio by my head was full of holes,
     The cord had been severed;
His attempts to stop the fire were futile,
     No matter how hard he endeavored.

I jumped and ran as fast as I could,
     Headed for a nearby bunker;
A flak jacket against an 8’’ round:, no way,
     I needed someplace safe to hunker!

I hit the ground when I heard,
     The next round of death screaming;
When I raised my head I began to pray,
     That I was only dreaming.

There before me was a piece of spine,
     From the Sergeant who had died,
Bloody and red with tatters of meat,
     A sight I can't forget even though I've tried.

Never have I been so scared,
     And felt so all alone;
What twist of fate had come to pass?
     That kept me from being that piece of bone.

Anger is a learned emotion, 
A lesson learned by all;
Lurking within, awaiting,
To spring at beck and call.

The anger and hate instilled,
Would later serve us well;
To carry us through our days,
In a blistering, dangerous hell.

Now what once was an ally,
That served us so well;
Becomes a dangerous enemy,
In a different kind of hell.

Now we cannot unlearn,
The lesson learned by all;
Still lurking within, awaiting,
To spring at beck and call.