Pete Ak
01-30-2013, 05:10 PM
In a grave for the living, I rationed my breaths.
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death we call sleep.
In wartime sleep is as far away from, and as close
to eternity as it’s possible to be.
A tired April sun peered over the horizon,
it’s watery light gradually revealing tents, where
hours earlier, stood a moonlit parade of miniature pyramids.
Men emerged reluctantly from shadowy angles,
desperate to shake free from this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me think
they relished these days of massacres and carnage.
We were battered, weary and cynical
but our interception of Robert E. Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand of Tennessee
gave hope to dreams of peace.
Such hope was challenged by the familiar, stentorian tone
of our Sergeant bellowing, “Fall in for roll call.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not ‘run in;’ not even ‘walk in.’
The call was to “fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here,”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was lamenting for six hundred thousand souls 'til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
He was yelling tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
One of our troop broke rank and called back,
“Hey buddy, we’ve been lookin’ for you for the last four years!”
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death we call sleep.
In wartime sleep is as far away from, and as close
to eternity as it’s possible to be.
A tired April sun peered over the horizon,
it’s watery light gradually revealing tents, where
hours earlier, stood a moonlit parade of miniature pyramids.
Men emerged reluctantly from shadowy angles,
desperate to shake free from this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me think
they relished these days of massacres and carnage.
We were battered, weary and cynical
but our interception of Robert E. Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand of Tennessee
gave hope to dreams of peace.
Such hope was challenged by the familiar, stentorian tone
of our Sergeant bellowing, “Fall in for roll call.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not ‘run in;’ not even ‘walk in.’
The call was to “fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here,”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was lamenting for six hundred thousand souls 'til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
He was yelling tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
One of our troop broke rank and called back,
“Hey buddy, we’ve been lookin’ for you for the last four years!”