Eighth Air Force by Randall Jarrell
If, in an odd angle of the hutment,
A puppy laps the water from a can
Of Flowers, and the the drunk sergeant shaving
Whistles O Paradiso!--shall I say that man
Is not as men have said: A wolf to man?
The other murderers troop in yawning;
Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one
Lies counting missions, lies there sweating
Till even his heart beats: One; One; One.
O murderers!...Still, this is how it's done:
This is 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 can
And 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.
