Our Real Cold War

PFC A. P. "Bob" Mixon - 1951
FO - 81 Mortars

The cold wind blows and a rifle sounds. The snow falls quietly all around.
Another rifle blasts its report and still another fires in support.
You crouch there freezing and wondering why you're in this mess; perhaps to die.
All crouched up because you're cold, you hug your weapon and try to be bold.
Calm and collected you want to be, but instead you're shaking; can the others see?

Naw, it;s dark, too dark for sight, your other senses will command this fight.
The seconds drag on as hours, it seems, then out of the darkness something gleams -
The hill explodes and hell is right there with all the torment the BOOK says we'll bear.
Bullets whine and hurt men scream; mortars burst and then it seems
There's but peace and quiet and coldness there, and you know they're regrouping but you don't care.

You're scared and cold and want to find some place on earth for peace of mind.
Some place where people live and love and believe in guidance from God above.
But you're not there; you're here instead and you wonder if you would be better off dead.
Then a rifle flashes from your right, you swing your head and catch the sight
Of a blasted Chink - you know they're here; they're all around. I you feel them near

Silently one creeps - unseen he thinks, but your rifle roars and with a yell, he sinks.
Dawn comes up like a dull grey tide and you move about to see which friend died.
The word goes out to saddle up and in only a mile you've had enough.
But there's always another hill to take, another enemy line to break.

And then, at last, the day grows old and you huddle together tired and cold.
You dig a hole through snow and ice and heat a can and hope to Christ
They'll be at ease for just tonight so that you can sleep ... sleep instead of fight.
The darkness comes and fearfully lie beneath the same old cold and starry sky; huddling
forlorn against the frozen ground with the snow for a blanket falling all around.

Listening for shot that rip and roar; just too tired to care much anymore.
Crouched there freezing and wondering why 'tis the lot of some to suffer and die
While others safe and secure in their might precipatate wars for us to fight.

Author: A. P. "Bob" Mixon
Submitted by:"Bob" Mixon, 81 FO, Attached to D/2/7
November/December 1950

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