Japanese fighter planes coming in
Three men at the gun, ready to fire;
How does one know it's time to go?

He knew the General Order, had never disobeyed:
"To quit my post only when properly relieved,"
Death leaning in or no. But what if it's time to go?

The Pacific teamed with ships; enemy planes sighted;
"Somebody's going to take a hit this time."
A sense that grew inside: "It's time to go."

He stood in the cramped gun house, "Good-bye, boys."
"Good-bye, Paul," one said, with no derision.
In his decision the certainty that it was time to go.

Swinging the steel door and stepping out,
His vision grayed from detonation,
Time stopped, or at least grew slow.

He'd left his post, nearly died in doing so,
Covered with gore from his friends
Who hadn't heard the call, "It's time to go."