The soldier boy was sitting calmly underneath

a tree,

As I approached it I could see him, beckoning

to me.

The battle had been long and hard and

lasted through the night

And scores of figures on the ground lay

still by morning's light.

"I wonder if you'd help me, sir", he smiled

as best he could.

"A sip of water on this morn would surely

do me good.

We fought all day and fought all night

with scarcely any rest -

A sip of water, for I have, a small pain in

my chest."

As I looked at him I could see, the large

stain on his shirt

All reddish-brown from his warm blood

mixed in with Asian dirt.

"Not much", said he, "I count myself more

lucky than the rest

They're all gone while I just have, a small

pain in my chest."

 

"must be getting old.

I see the sun is shinning bright and yet

I'm feeling cold.

We climbed the hill, two hundred strong,

but as we cleared the crest,

The night exploded and I felt, this small

pain in my chest."

"I looked around to get some aid - the

only things I found

Were big, deep craters in the earth - bodies

on the ground.

I kept on firing at them, sir. I tried my

very best,

But finally I sat down, with this small pain

in my chest."

"I'm grateful, sir", he whispered, as I

handed my canteen

And smiled a smile that was I think, the

brightest that I've seen.

"Seems silly that a man my size so full of

vim and zest,

Could find himself defeated by, a small

pain in his chest."

"What would my wife be thinking of, her

man so strong and grown?

 

If she could see me sitting here, too

weak to stand-alone?

Could my mother have imagined, as she

held me to her breast,

That I'd be sitting here one day, with this

pain within my chest?

"Can it be getting dark so soon?" He

winced up at the sun.

"It's growing dim and I thought that the

day had just begun.

I think, before I travel on, I'll get a little

rest……….."

And, quietly, the boy died from that, small

pain in his chest.

I don't recall what happened then. I

think I must have cried;

I put my arms around him and pulled him

to my side.

And, as I held him to me I could feel our

wounds were pressed

The large one in my heart against, the

small one in his chest.

 

 

Small Pain in my Chest.

By Michael Mack, and Sent to Arthur Lane by Elsa Beattie.

(A battlefield scene captured and translated

into the above by the American,

Michael Mack, who kindly gave me his

permission to use this poem in our magazine.)