Men may argue forever on what wins their wars,
And welter in cons and pros,
And seek for their answer at history's doors,
But the man with the rifle knows.
He must stand on the ground on his own two feet,
And he's never in doubt when it's won,
If it's won he's there; if he's not, it's defeat.
That's his test, when the fighting is done.
When he carries the fight, it's not with a roar
Of armored wings spitting death.
He creeps and crawls on earthen floor,
Butt down and holding his breath.
Saving his strength for the last low rush;
Grenade throw and bayonet thrust;
and the whispered prayer, before he goes in,
Of a man who does what he must.
And when he's attacked, he can't zoom away,
When the shells fill the world with their sound,
He stays where he is, lossens his spade,
And digs his defense in the ground.
That ground isn't ours till he's there in the flesh.
Not a gadget or bomb but a man.
He's the answer to the theories which start afresh,
With each peace since war began.
So let the wild circle of argument range
On what wins, as war comes and goes,
Many new theories may hold the stage,
But the man with the rifle knows.
