Pops part I

 

Helmet “halo”-glow!   I

Lightning-flashes and thunder-booming echo-crescendos

shattered an evil-darkness as mean-intentioned-bullets

screamed-“Death” in a raging-battle; the flashes and earth-shaking

concussions were absent Mother-Nature, rather, resultant of

heavy artillery-shelling of a muddy-“Hell” battlefield. Evil!

 

Steel-helmets glowed like a-cache of sparkling-diamonds in the

midnight-cosmos reflecting illuminations from artillery-bursts

highlighting the battlefield like silver mushrooms on some fantasy-

fauna-flora pine-meadow. But - - -evil-Death…knows no-humor.

 

Pops, so-nicknamed by the “boys” aged 19 and 20, because

he was an ancient “34”! buried his unshaven-face in the

slimy, cold mud of a French-field while clutching his

government-issue rifle beneath his-body and pressing

his steel-helmet tight against his-skull with a free-hand.

 

A seeming-lifetime later, in actuality, only 2 ½  hours, a

pink-blush hint-of-dawn teased the eastern-horizon.

 

The onslaught-ceased with day’s new-risen sun! Scary-Quiet!

 

Pops reached for his-canteen, took several-swallows;

the tepid liquid cool on his parched-throat. Ahh!

 

Daring to raise his head, Pops surveyed the-carnage. He-cried hot-tears!

 

Stumbling-forward, he spied a dead-bird, buried-it, placed a rock on-it.

 

Onward, Pops - - - and, the boys…marched, as the-dead, into their-future.

 

Amen!