In the Snows of France
by Michael Doyle

Doc was a medic
Running from hole to hole
There wasn't a fox
Who didn't know his soul

The Germans kept coming
With machine guns drumming
Sounding off in the darkest night
The 101st prayed for the morning light

A little drip of morphine
Might soften the pain
The mortar rounds kept coming
Like the worst kind of hard rain

The wounded were his friends
And the shelling wouldn't stop
On Doc, they could depend
On one knee in prayer, they went deep

These were prayers full of grace
While no courage could fully brace
The boys to get them through the night
Each was trying to hold on to the morning light

A little drip of morphine
Might soften the pain
The mortar rounds kept coming
Like the worst kind of hard rain

The men advanced on the move
Through the falling snow
Though each hoped it would improve
It's no secret, what dead men know

Each of us has numbered days
Though we don't know how it will end
Each of them had dreams enough to amaze
They would kill and die for their friends

A little drip of morphine
Might soften the pain
The mortar rounds kept coming
Like the worst kind of hard rain

The young man died a virgin
Though he was as brave as any man
If only his company had had a surgeon
But the medics do the best that they can

They were called lucky to survive
To walk from that battle half-alive
Each of them would remember that day
When the best they had left was to pray

A little drip of morphine
Might soften the pain
The mortar rounds kept coming
Like the worst kind of hard rain

(c) January 11, 2025  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved