GABE
by
Russell E. Spooner

Our president came on the air
    and presidents don't lie.
All three-times wounded would go home,
    no more long odds defy.
Then Gabe showed up, his wound near healed,
    and this had been his third,
so he was out, we all believed,
    who'd heard our leader's word.

A good thing, too, for Gabe was far
    along toward section eight.
His eyes bugged out, his hands both shook,
    he walked with a spastic gait.
"I know I'm going to die," he said.
    "Can't do it any more.
This next time up will be my last
    in this Christ-lost friggin' war."

But Gabe was good, the best we had;
    he'd led his men so well
that every one would follow him
    through all the fires of hell.
That's why his unit called him up
    when ordered to attack.
And all our president had said?
    Just home-consumption flak.

We gained about a mile that night;
    The Krauts withdrew in order,
and slammed the leading edge of our line
    with eighty-eights and mortar.
The silent dawn disclosed no clue
    on how Gabe might have died.
Of his own squad, not one survived,
    nor many more beside.

A rifle by a shell hole lay;
    a hand still clutched its stock.
We called it Gabe and buried it,
    crossed bayonets for a mark.
Now more than fifty years have passed
    since Gabe was sent to die,
and in each speech of presidents
    I always hear a lie.