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To Kill A Man!
To Kill A Man.
on February 25, 2004.
© -MFB III-All rights reserved
A quick glance
at an abrupt change in the area
of the sector
you are focused in on,
a distinct movement
coupled with a blur
in the distance that
sharpens on your scope,
like a revelation
that catches your breath.
in the fine cross hairs.
the enemy creeps stealth like.
towards your position,
a young Asian face.
stained with dirt, and
laughing at something
another soldier says behind him.
At least three hundred yards away
you click your dope, and slow your pulse
as you figure elevation and wind direction
then you get him fixed, in your sights where
he will soon be broken.
You relax your whole body,
take in a breath and hold it
then blow it out slowly,
with the stock of your rifle
firm against your cheek,
that warm wood grain that is
sun drenched feels like a caress.
Then expertly squeezing,
gently on the trigger,
between pulses, and breath blown,
till you don't even know it's been fired,
it should always surprise you,
with a crack and a kick,
into your shoulder muscle,
as the small victory is launched.
Long before the sound reaches him
he falls like a tent collapsing into
a rumpled pile of clothes, and flesh
that are all that remains,
remains to be counted.
You mark a small check on the butt
of your rifle, and move quickly to
another vantage point in this
long distanced execution, of
a man looking to kill you.
His face will always be there
underneath the crossed hairs,
on your head, and buried eternally
in the back of your mind, plus his name
if you are lucky enough to count coup
will also stick with you forever.
you carry your dead like a small scar
on your soul even though he would have
killed you just as quickly and carried you
as well back home to a normal world
Up close, face to face with death,
it is far more hectic, and personal
the heated words, and screams of courage
as the enemy runs at you.
The beads of sweat and the stench of fear
as two grapple in hand to hand combat
arms and feet striking at soft points
trying to take out a knee, crush a scrotum,
fingers attempting to hook the corner of his eye
to remove it and leave it dangling by its optic nerve
Scrabbling for a bayonet
frantic fingers yanking it free
fist locking around it's heft, feet back pedaling
scrabbling, from the slicing of air, then flesh
a flwick sound as blood spatters in an arc over you,
a strong foul odor as bladder, and bowels empty,
watching the stagger of reality he dances,
as you close in now on your wounded prey
The begging sounds as he stumbles,
breath wheezing, as he tries to desperately,
reach for a weapon, somewhere just south of his demise,
then your blade slips sideways between the
third and fourth ribs, so as not to hit any bones
butter smooth, it is buried to the hilt
and pulled out as quick, in case it's needed again.
Or much more mercifully,
you might take a quick two step behind him,
away from those ghastly eyes of fear, shining whitely,
wetly bulging outward, and then slash a huge gash
across his throat, from one ear to the next,
a clean sweep, and then put a foot in the small
of his back to drop him.
Don't ever let them tell you
war is full of glory,
gory maybe, the copper stench,
of blood never leaves your nostrils,
and the sounds of the dying haunt,
the chambers of your ears for many years
That smell of defecation,
as life leaves the body,
is beyond description,
The gaseous fumes of a rotting corpse,
sweetly sickens you to vomit.
Sometimes, back home you see a face,
in the crowd that reminds you of that man you killed,
and it shocks you, and rocks you back to that time,
till some small detail makes you realize,
it's just someone else.
No one ever talks much about this,
no one really wants to hear it,
war is so much easier on T.V. and in the stats,
and in newspapers, it's cleaner there,
processed, and dealt out in small doses,
but in the trenches, in the deserts,
and in the jungles, men are even now making memories,
that would loosen your bowels, and steal your sanity,
they are taking tallies that they backpack home,
and carry for as long as they breathe free air,
to kill a man is to own, the nightmare of his passing