meal time

my mother sez im mad, for seeing whats in this poem. i wish all of the wars would stop. simple...

Meal Time
An army squad walked down the road. It could have been any road with any army in any war. The men quietly grumbled about sore feet, about the light rain and grey sky, about missing a meal. Above all they complained about missing home and their sweethearts. But a grumbling soldier is a functioning soldier. He’ll carry our orders and get on with the job. Just like these men on their way to relieve a forward position.

Eight men. One took out a photograph of his darling. He passed it round the squad. Each man look at the well-thumbed snap. One or two commented how nice the lady was. The photo’s owner gruffly replied, ‘Her name is Hannah. She’s 23. Three years older than me. We met in the cinema. When I get my next leave, we’ll get married.’ His buddies nodded and slapped his back. We’ll have a beer when we can one said.

Just then it happened. It came down from above with tremendous speed and no warning. There was absolutely nothing to be done, nowhere to run or hide. The 155mm shell came in at a steep angle and exploded between the eight men with the force of war. The explosion was bright orange. Shell fragments whooshed away. The blast wave was simply awesome. When it all died down white smoke wafted upwards to the grey clouds.

No trace of the men remained as such. Scraps of flesh here and there, on the road and blasted up into leafless tree branches. The road was broken by a big deep crater. Being a forward supply route, it was a prime target for enemy guns. And in range. In the fortunes of war, the men were in the wrong place when the 155 round came in. One small story in a global war spanning continents and millions of lives.

Only half of Hannah’s photo remained. It was still held in one man’s hand, in a bloody death grip. Nothing remained of the soldier except random bits of red flash. The smell of these attracted baying wild half-starved ravaged rabid dogs. Running round the crater, six dogs howled and barked and snarled insanely. Feeding time started. One dog found a foot in a boot and ran into the trees to feed. His fellow hounds ate heartily, snapping up flesh and lapping warm blood.

Months previously, the dogs had belonged to upper middle class people, who lived in plush homes in a mid-size town. Now the town was gone, owners dead and the traumatized dogs were beyond wild. The whole area was now the front line and a million men fought and died in a battle beyond human scope. Such was the total fucking evil of a war that couldn’t, wouldn’t, be stopped. No one even knew why anymore.