Eighth Air Force

Selected Poems (1955)

If, in an odd angle of the hutment,A puppy laps the water from a canOf flowers, and the drunk sergeant shavingWhistles O Paradiso!—shall I say that manIs not as men have said: a wolf to man?

The other murderers troop in yawning;Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and oneLies counting missions, lies there sweatingTill even his heart beats: One; One; One.O murderers! … Still, this is how it’s done:

This is a war … But since these play, before they die,Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man,I did as these have done, but did not die—I will content the people as I canAnd give up these to them: Behold the man!

I have suffered, in a dream, because of him,Many things; for this last saviour, man,I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying?Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can:I find no fault in this just man.

Bombers. Selected Poems (1955)