Three Forks of the Kentucky River Historical Association

Poems & Stories

Thoughts Written at Cartes, France While Waiting to be Re-assigned

by Rutherford Baker
written during World War II

I watch the sun sink into a backdrop of gold and crimson skies with the church spires and steeples peeping through. The thin slice of golden moon comes up with the whippoorwill and meadowlarks bidding another day anew

Have you ever stopped to analyze your own self my friend and to your own self-been true, each fault lie bare and to dwell upon the things of life or deeds you used to do.

Some were in life we all have erred and paid with nights unrest and why did each successive deed seem more foolish than the rest. There on the field of combat with shells and bullets flying low we had time to think, too much, Oh God we know it sod. There where mud, dirt, and filth was near to you where some were bound to go. The kid from high school whose fear knew no height, you helped him all you could to win his own fight.

Here was the country boy whose cheeks still wore the down, but his heart was brave and fear had found no home, but a early dusk when God, it seemed, was near the Germans cut him down.

I often wonder what your thoughts at home may be each day when early dusk comes down, It is on the night club just across the way or on the boy across the sea and the muddy fox hole where he lays, did you feel like writing him a line to let him know you thought of him and where he spent his time.

We too have our night clubs and each guest arrives on time as all nice guest do, the Mr. 88s and the mortars where there too, don't forget the tankers came and the planes stopped when passing through and each left their cards and when they left as all guest do they took some thing from their host, but death was always host.

Yes, we have our own night clubs where Hell, his own spawn brings forth to take a life, to ruin a home and to touch each other heart and leave a scar that time alone will heal. I watch the sun go down at dusk and each star come forth on high and often wonder if they do contain the souls of men who die. They shine and quiver as though to say "I too remember your home of mud and the price you had to pay" and as the darkness settles down I whisper God bless them where they lay.

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