A fictional story poem..........
A misplaced foot.
All was calm, not one sound,
Considering the presence of war,
The sun so hot, its burning waves,
Danced transparent, above the floor.
Brown and Chub's with gun's in hand,
Sat crouched behind a wall,
The Sarge and Adam's took the point,
And above, Snipe watched them all.
Bomber stood beside the truck,
Inside his green Kevlar kit,
The way he had too many times,
Same thing, different day, same shit.
He could barely breathe inside his suit,
The heat was hard to stand,
His breath fogged up the plastic mask,
The sweat condensed his hands.
The order came across the radio,
For all the men to move,
Each of them took up their post,
Sarge said "O.K Bomber, it’s up to you".
"Roger Sarge" the boy replied,
Slowly walking towards his mark,
He looked around at shell scarred walls,
A once great city, shattered and stark.
Two hundred meters from the truck,
Bomber reached his target,
A litter bin filled up with nails,
And the best explosives on the market.
He talked the team through all his moves,
The turn of each small screw,
They felt the cut of every wire,
He sensed fear, in his crew.
"Four hundred bombs, in two damn years,
Will they ever trust me Sarge?"
Questioned the boy with ice cool nerves,
While removing the deadly charge.
Replied the Sarge "don't worry son,
With their life they trust in you,
But if that bomb should detonate,
It’s a brother they will lose".
With a smile, Bomber turned around,
And announced that all was clear,
"Now lets get gone from this damn place,
You all owe me a beer".
The lads all laughed at his remark,
The Sarge ordered "all pull out"
Fifteen feet from the truck,
Bomber gave a shout.
Before they knew, there came a blast,
The air was thick with dust,
Bomber was thrown across the street,
His lifeless body badly crushed.
From where he'd stood was a smoking hole,
In which a land mine had been put,
A device that's easily deposed of,
With a soldier’s misplaced foot.
"Four hundred and one" the soldier bragged,
Into Chub's ear, as he died,
As young Bombers soul departed,
All his brothers softly cried.
We never know what is held in our next chosen step. You certainly bring it all home here Steve in a unique way. It seems at times our days are numbered. Who lives and who dies is hard to realize at times. I remember a night in ICU, 2 men with heart problems. One 30 and one 92. In the morning the 30 year old is dead and the 90 year old is still alive. It is hard to calculate what is in the next step when your name is written all over it. It doesn't always make sense. A poet friend// RH Peat
This is a remarkable poem Steve. Perfectly constructed to bring home the absloute wastefulness of war.