Copyright 1998, Robert E. Dalton

 
Orders were to take the hill, orders were to kill and kill, 
Orders were to blow the town, orders were to mow them down. 
Orders said to kill the people, 
Blast the church, and burn the steeple. 
Orders came and orders went,  
And all those precious lives were spent. 
 
Then more orders filtered through,  
"Kill them all, or they'll kill you!" 
Orders said destroy, destroy, man and woman, girl and boy. 
Orders told them how to maim,  
Told them "Go, and kill again!" 
Orders always told them how... That is, always, up to now. 

Then one small soldier, short and thin, 
 Refused the call to kill again. 
They saw him stand, and heard him cry,  
"Comrades, someone tell me why, 
Like sheep we follow these commands 
That cause the blood to stain the sands!" 
 
"It's orders!"  Cried another man,  
Then stroked his chin and thought again. 
Another stood and mused, "Well now,  
Who gave these orders, anyhow?" 
"Why, those in charge," someone said,  
And a bearded soldier scratched his head. 
 
The little fellow, short and thin,  
Raised his hand and spoke again. 
"If those in charge want killing done,  
Why are we here holding guns?" 
A grizzled sergeant shook his head  
And looked at all the gory dead. 
 
"The question needs an answer, son,
Why are we out here holding guns?" 
So they sent word to the other side,  
Who also wondered why they'd died. 
"The orders didn't shoot the guns,  
It was us, we're the ones!" 
 
"Then let us stop, and let's go home.   
Let those in charge make war alone." 
"That's right!"  Another yelled aloud, 
And the feeling swept through all the crowd. 
Then one small fellow, short and thin,  
Marched off the field, to home and kin, 
And all the others followed him,  
Till the war was gone... it had no men. 
 

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