Jack Buck: American Patriot

Next week will mark seven years since Jack Buck passed away. Most people outside St. Louis and non-fans of the Cardinals probably don’t realize Buck’s penchant for poetry. In his twilight years, he wrote poetry and gave a younger generation an up-close view of his love of country.

Buck was drafted into the army in June of 1943, and served until receiving an honorable discharge in May of 1946. In his autobiography That’s a Winner, Buck recalled his meeting with fate.

“I was scrambling for cover when an .88 hit a tree behind me and the shrapnel got me in the left arm and left leg. I had a hand grenade hanging on my chest and to this day I don’t know how the shrapnel missed it. I just missed losing my left arm, not to mention having my head blown off. I was really lucky.”

Buck received a Purple Heart for the incident, even if his reception wasn’t too big of a deal:

“In some of those movies about the war, those ceremonies are a lot more dramatic than they actually are. All I remember was sitting on my hospital bed and an officer came down the aisle and said, ‘John Buck?’ When I identified myself, he tossed the medal to me, then moved on to the next guy.”

His experiences in World War II led to his penning of “6-6-44,″ a poetic reflection of D-Day. Since Saturday marked the 65th anniversary of the infamous day in our world’s history, here is Buck’s poem from the book Forever a Winner.

“'D' Day in Europe was the sixth of June, nineteen forty-four.
It was the start of the end of World War Two
unlike anything seen before.

Ordinary men from the forty eight states
had trained as best they knew how.
They were tough and ready and anxious to fight.
They didn’t know what we know now.

They left the coast of England,
to the beaches of France.
They plunged into an inferno.
The devil had started his dance.

The man-made thunder, and a storm made of steel,
introduced them to a new level of fear.
Awe overtook them,
and they shared the same thought, “What the hell am I doing here?”

Long before they fired a shot,
every man knew his chances were slim.
Even hell was never this hot.
He said goodbye to the pal next to him.

How could one live even five minutes more?
Forward was the only command.
They were headed for Death’s wide-open door.
They would die with their face in the sand.

Fate played its part and guided some of them through,
but most never saw the next day.
They lie beneath a Normandy cross.
So young and so far away."

And while on the topic of Jack Buck, poetry and America, here’s Buck on September 17, 2001, commencing baseball’s return following the September 11th attacks.

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