Grandfather's poem about telling war stories
|Man to Man
By: Jack Howard Hatfield; My Grandfather
When I was but a youngster,
Just knee high to the floor,
My dad would boast at boring length,
Of how he won the war.
He told me talks of bravery,
That uncurled my kinky hair,
And oft produced a little pin,
He called a Croix de Guerre.
No matter what the battle,
Were it Marne or Fritz’s lot,
He was the brains behind the brawn,
Its master of the plot.
And oft my soul would flood with pride,
My youthful heart would thrill,
To think that father’s pictures
Graced the thirty dollar bill.
He was a master strategist,
A Shaki-Charlie Chan,
John Pershing was his protégé,
Who would often whisper;
“Son, no matter what the histories say,
Your pop took World War One.”
Though I may not win a medal
For my part in World War Two.
I promise you there’s one thing
That I’ve set my mind to do.
When sweet youth is but a memory,
And my hair is thinly cropped,
I’ll take up with that son of mine,
Exactly where dad stopped.