by Capt. Robert A. Wyckoff
- In vacant corners of our land, off rutted gravel trails,
- There is a watchful breed of men, who see that peace
- For them there are no waving flags, no blare of martial
- There is no romance in their job, no glory at high noon.
- In an oft’ repeated ritual, they casually hang their
- Where the wages of man’s love and hate, are restrained
in a small red box.
- In a world of flickering colored lights, and endless
- The missile crews will talk awhile, but soon will turn
- To a flash of light or other worldly tone, conditioned
- Behind each move, unspoken thoughts, of the bombs that
- They live with patient waiting, with tactics, minds infused,
- And the quiet murmur of the heart, that hopes it’s never
- They feel the living throb, of the mindless tool they
- They hear the constant whir, of a world that knows no
- There light is ever present, no moon’s nocturnal sway,
- The clock’s unnatural beat, belies not night or day.
- Behind a concrete door slammed shut, no starlit skies
- No sun-bleached clouds in azure sky, in which to dance
- But certain as the rising sun, these tacit warriors seldom
- They’re ever grimly ready, for someone has to be.
- Beneath it all they’re common men, who eat and sleep
- But between them is a common bond, of knowledge they’re
- A group of men who love they’re land, who serve it long
- Who stand their thankless vigil, on the brink of man-made
- In boredom fluxed with stress, encapsuled they reside,
- They do their job without complaint, of pleasures oft’
- For duty, honor, country, and a matter of self pride.