The Chaplain wore no helmet,
As his head was bowed in prayer.
His face was seemed with sorrow,
But a trace of hope was there.
Our ranks were hushed and silent,
Diminished by our loss.
At our feet the rows of crosses,
Told how much that battle cost.
Rows of neat white crosses,
And Stars of David too.
Marked the gravesites of our brothers,
Whose fighting days were through.
Friends of mine were lying there,
Ski and Ace and Slim.
Bill and Jed, Joe and Jack,
Dusty, Rex and Jim.
Each had his simple marker,
But the nearest one to me,
Was a plain white wooden headboard marked,
In this final camp of comrades,
I found it rather odd,
That a man should lie among them,
Known to none except his God.
Who can he be I wondered?
Was he white or black or red?
This man who shares his resting place,
With our loved and honored dead.
He cannot be a stranger,
But a friend whose lonely track,
Has brought him here among us,
I think I'll call him "Mac."
For "Mac" is a name we've often used,
And it's been used on me.
Far better than the epitaph
So many times I've heard it,
In the blackness of the night.
Through the swirling mists of combat,
With a battle at it's height.
"Hey, Mac!" a voice would call,
"We could use some help out here!
I've got a man whose wounded.
Can you help him to the rear?"
"Hey, Mac! I'm really burning up.
That sun's so blazing hot!
Could you spare a drop of water?
Gee, thanks Mac! Thanks alot!"
The day when I was wounded,
Hurt and lying in the snow.
A cigarette offered to me,
By a man I did not know.
He quickly stopped the bleeding,
And then rolled me on my back.
Grinned and gripped his rifle,
And said, "Take it easy, Mac."
A simple word, a simple name,
But still it proves to me.
That no man ever truly is,
The Chaplain's prayer is finished,
As our colors gently dip.
The rifle squad is ready,
The bugler wet his lip.
With blurry eye and saddened heart,
I heard the rifles crack.
And Taps floated softly on the air,
And I said "Good-bye" to Mac.
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