by Poetry99
© 2001 Dorothy E. Scott, all rights reserved
In the war I marched as a Special Forces soldier
each day.
My colonel was an Irish man with flaming red hair, a Green Beret.
His favorite saying was, "Keep just a prick of conscience in the
battle foray!"
I would just laugh and mutter, "It won't happen that way."
We were marching in the jungle irritated by the
mosquitoes and flies.
Lone snipers were occasionally shooting bullets above our heads with
their tries.
The peace of the jungle was interrupted by as shrill bird's
cries.
One of our buddies was entertaining us with tall tales, a fisherman
lies.
We all laughed because we knew he didn't live by
the ocean or sea.
But his yarns of imagination set our needy laughter free.
A small thatch hut loomed in the distance; awakening fear's
decree.
We lowered our rifles and knelt by a tall shady tree.
Among the draping limbs, we saw a woman hanging
out fresh washed clothes on a large rock.
A young girl was playing with stones and drawing with a piece of
chalk.
She was singing an American marching song as she made lines on a
wooden block.
Their observations recorded a surviving family not the kind who
stalk.
We left our hiding place, our tall-tale
buddy found a piece of gum for the child.
Our colonel was whistling the marching song as a sign of peace in the
wild.
As we approached the little hut; our welcome was anger defiled!
A long rifle was taken from the laundry where it was
piled.
The singing colonel was shot in his breast through
his caring heart.
Our tall-tale was stabbed in the throat by the little girl, tearing
his vocal chords apart.
My rifle was quickly lowered as I took aim jerking my finger with a
start.
The woman's blood stained the clean clothes lying in a woven basket
on a handcart.
Just as quick as a bullet found its final home,
the child's knife sunk into my tender side.
Through the air with frenzy, my bullet took its final ride.
The hardened metal imbedded into the little girl's chest with a
death-seeking stride.
"Just a prick of conscience!" had become my final guide!
The colonel lay on the ground gasping his last
breath, calling my name.
While the radio man announced the impending circle of death's
frame.
Helicopters could be circling above the trees as medics came.
Our tall-tale buddy lay where death had made its final
claim.
My Irish colonel muttered, "You kept just a prick
of conscience in the battle foray!
It has led the troop to the entrance of death's permanent play."
A smile creased his lips as he died on a stretcher and was carried
away.
My paralyzed body realized that "Just a prick of conscience" ruled
the battle that day.