Hell From On High


James’s Note: There were two inspirations for this poem. One was something that happened to my father in law. He was once pinned down by snipers fire in an undisclosed location where he never officially has been. They called in for assistance, and a A10 Warthog obliterated the enemy position. Which is why he says that is his favorite airplane.

The other is from a book I once read about a man in World War 2. He went around in a jeep armed with nothing but a pair of binoculars and a radio, and yet he reckoned himself the most dangerous man on the battle field. See, he was a forward observer for the artillery, and said his job was to trap German soldiers between an erupting earth and an exploding sky, in a whirlwind of razor blades.

This poem is dedicated to any one who has ever had a prayer answered by high explosives, and anyone who has every been the cavalry that can in when they were needed most.


The bullets rained down 

Like a hail made of lead

As we dove for the cover,

Our blood running red.

We sent out a call 

Like a wireless prayer,

And we tried to hold out 

Until help could get there.

Then a thunder rolled out 

We could feel in our chests

And it struck down the place 

Where our foes were at rest.

The black hand of God 

Fell on them from on high,

With fire and smoke and 

Death sent from the sky.

We looked up to see

Where the havoc had rained.

The foes were all gone.

Only rubble remained.

We gathered the wounded

And hurried on by 

And sent out our thanks

For the hell from on high.

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