The tree-trunk brought him solace
a place to rest his hand
the man more Irish than his whiskey
was not long for this land
and his bayonet and musket –
ingrained in him that day
on the ground called Little Round Top
lay with him, bleeding, as he’d say;
we fight for that man Chamberlain
(manly was his speech)
with majesty and guile
eye to eye, he cried, beseeched;
do it for me this day m’lad
fight for honour ‘cos you can
do it for me this day m’lad
this day become a man
their eyes pierced each others,
(so sincere)
as Chamberlain implored;
my men are angels, pure angels
great deeds they’ll do, be sure
his Irish friend spoke one last time –
they’re Killer Angels, barely read
they’ve got that killer instinct, Sir
they’ll fight until they’re dead
they’ll hold that hill
with guts and will
you’ll lead them ‘til they’ve bled
their soul will sing
the devil’s dance
the mainstay of the band
as Chamberlain reached out, so dear –
reached out, and held his hand
you may be gone my dearest chum
but in my heart you live
and strive to be the essence, we
of courage found within
I’m with you, Sir, I’m by your side
though from backgrounds, so severe
go forth and hold –
be brave and bold
away your Angels’ fear
you will return to Bowdoin, Maine
and live a life of large
and as you do
(may God be true)
and war be far apart
yet reflect – on boys to men –
for their mother’s, they shall weep
fight your good fight
and in the dark of night
think of me – now sound asleep.
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Footnote: this poem is based on the only fictitious character, Buster Kilrain, in the movie, Gettysburg (1993), written and directed by Robert F Maxwell, and the novel, The Killer Angels (1974), by Michael Shaara.
sensualism 