Of Conflict And Honour

In The Deep Green

The enemy bumped on our left flank with a crackling burst of rounds.
Sudden noise, surprise and surging fear; as one, we went to ground.
Urgent voices, curt commands, tenuous control in swirling turmoil.
Trained discipline the body served although the mind recoiled.

Sun angled low and speared dappled rays through shrouding canopy,
while drifting red smoke in the weeping deep green tempted insanity
Death trampelled here in this tranquil place and marked us all for life.
The exchange though brief, engendered relief, transcending terrible strife.

Agony etched on the dead soldier's face exposed the Devil's hand,
and God alone knew his final thoughts strewn to the gale like sand.
Though the wraith exuded malice, its freed soul seemed another friend;
and conflict with our brother in arms ceased at this desperate end.

As the wounded cry alone to be saved, the dead reach their calm salvation
while any who mock the ebbing life are condemned to eternal damnation.
Tho' honour may be masked by fatigue and fear, and confusion in the demand,
the common thread of the uniform weaves a soldier's love for his land.

Dread descends as the growling machines thud away to the gloomy horizon.
Then, silence screams our sacred thoughts to the world of our corruption.
Demons disperse at the whispered command, on shouldering again the burden.
Attention seizes the task at hand, conscious thought returns to the weapon.

© 30 June 2001

R.B. Lewis

We did our job