First To Die Poem by John F. McCullagh

“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
bullets nipping at my heels,
my medic-aid kit in my hand.

“Its Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.

Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.

A sucking wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.

Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Stars and stripes up to the sky.

Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.