The corpsmanâ€™s going home today
He came through our aid station
They carry him slow, his feet go first
And ours is a lost sensation.
The burial bag that heâ€™s wrapped in
Itâ€™s dark, itâ€™s damp,Â itâ€™s cold
Heâ€™s not a hero, just a â€œDOCâ€
His story must be told.
He came to this land months ago
To treat the wounded leathernecks
That fight the Viet Cong.
His only job was:Â Treat the wounds
His mission:Â Save a life
His tools were not the tools of death
The bomb, the gun, the knife.
Heâ€™s known the steaming jungle
Where hellâ€™s wrath could unfold
Heâ€™s been on many a sweep and probe
Night ambush and patrol.
A mission of mercy they call it
This sailor in camouflage greens
No hospital ship or dispensary
Just sharing hell with Marines.
Some spend twenty years climbing mountains
Theyâ€™re commonly seen in these lands
Where the life of death of a comrade
Is a fate, often held, in his hands.
But fate is not always there with them
This corpsman, his future denied
Oâ€™er a wounded Marine he was treating
On a rock pile, there in Dong Ha, he died.
Yes, He came by our place today
Tonight heâ€™s crossing the foam
Beyond the call, he gave his all
The corpsmanâ€™s going home.
Somewhere, sometime, in a place called, Viet Namdiv