| The Helicopter Pilot |  |
| In Vietnam I flew a craft,
A Huey made by Bell
Through missions made of boredom
And sometimes living hell.
We chopper pilots hauled the mail
And Grunts we hauled by scores
And often saw the grief that's caused
In mankind's modern wars.
When bullets flew no man could know
Which one might kill a Friend
But missions go, and work goes on
Until the day's work ends.
Then there came tomorrow
But nothing there had changed
The names that fight the battle
Were merely rearranged.
And so again the war renewed
And soldiers fought and bled
And so it was my duty
To medevac the dead.
But later that same day
The radio message spoke:
A wounded Brother needed help
A Huey His only hope.
And so a mission of itself
Began with heart and soul
Its purpose was to save a Friend
And try to make him whole.
The war no longer mattered
Though risks ahead were clear
Our foe would aim to end our task
To aid a Friend so dear.
The nose dropped low as on we sped
With purpose clear we'd strive
And hope drew strength within us
That our Friend was still alive.
And so we came to find him
There's little else to say
And he was saved among the lost
Our victory for that day
A pilot, yes, a soldier too
I learned the truth of war
And now I'll pass it on to you
So you will know the score.
Soldiers do not fight the fight
To justify war's ends
They labor long and fight and die
To simply save their Friends.
It's important you remember
How wars all come to be
And who it was that sent our troops,
"The People", that is, "We".
And shame of shames upon you
As we war on foreign lands
If you think no stain is on you
And no blood is on your hands. | By Bill Janes
Copyright 2003
http://www.191ahc.org/
Listed July 9, 2007 |
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