Oh Yes, She Was the Guard

A TRIBUTE TO SGT TRACEY BROGDON

By William McDonald, PhD

(See Previous Post - "Her Tomorrows. Our Todays")

He trod the snow with Washington

His feet were numb with pain

He fired the shot heard round the world

The prize he sought, he gained

My brother word the Union blue

As he climbed Henry Hill

My comrade word the Rebel gray

As his heart lay cold and still

The Guardsman packed his duffel bag

At Uncle Sam’s Behest

Through years ahead the Fuhrer’s men

Would give him little rest

In the skies of Vietnam

His wings were swept with fog

A missile arched, a pilot died

And touched the face of God

Someone tapped her shoulder

And said, “It is your turn,”

In his hand a worn baton

“The race is not quite won”

And though she would lose family

And though she would lose friends

And though she would lose life itself

Her hand she did extend

Her teammate was still struggling

To match her faster gait

And as he passed baton to her

He fell to seal his fate

And as she clutched the worn baton

The wood was red and scarred

He whispers as he ends his watch

“Oh yes, I was the Guard”

It was her turn to run the race

Beneath a foreign sun

Her ship had weathered every rack

The prize she sought, she won

It was her turn to set the pace

Across the burning sand

Which Guard will dare to take her place

Which one extends his hand?

All rights reserved. Copyright 1995