- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 110
Anyone who's spent a few nights on guard duty in a sandbag bunker can relate to this one . . . .
**************************
On the Berm at Midnight
It's dark, damned dark.
You can't see shit.
There's a bunker all around you,
sandbags, four deep on top, thicker at the sides.
A fucking crypt, Army-built to hold three morons
too dumb to get out of guard duty.
You know about the wire
and mines, and tin cans with pebbles inside.
Like Charlie ain't smart enough
to keep clear of wire and rattling cans.
Two clackers hang to your left,
clackers for your own personal claymores.
Except it's so fucking dark you can't see shit,
much less clackers.
Charlie is out there.
In the wire.
You can feel the little bastards.
Laughing at you and your stupid fucking wire
and dumb shit pebbles in C-rat cans.
They're coming closer.
You want a cigarette,
but not bad enough to light a match.
Not with Charlie out there watching.
The radio hums and garbles.
It's turned way down, so Charlie can't hear
and you can't either, but who gives a shit?
The little brown bastards will slip through the fucking wire
and cut your throat before you even know you're dead.
That's what they say.
Some asshole two bunkers down fires up the night.
Tracers rip wire and dirt and cans.
Flares blossom overhead,
swing down under dorky white chutes.
You stare out into bright light
at dancing black shadows.
Black comes back.
Your night vision is fucked.
And Charlie's out there.
You can feel him.
jim
**************************
On the Berm at Midnight
It's dark, damned dark.
You can't see shit.
There's a bunker all around you,
sandbags, four deep on top, thicker at the sides.
A fucking crypt, Army-built to hold three morons
too dumb to get out of guard duty.
You know about the wire
and mines, and tin cans with pebbles inside.
Like Charlie ain't smart enough
to keep clear of wire and rattling cans.
Two clackers hang to your left,
clackers for your own personal claymores.
Except it's so fucking dark you can't see shit,
much less clackers.
Charlie is out there.
In the wire.
You can feel the little bastards.
Laughing at you and your stupid fucking wire
and dumb shit pebbles in C-rat cans.
They're coming closer.
You want a cigarette,
but not bad enough to light a match.
Not with Charlie out there watching.
The radio hums and garbles.
It's turned way down, so Charlie can't hear
and you can't either, but who gives a shit?
The little brown bastards will slip through the fucking wire
and cut your throat before you even know you're dead.
That's what they say.
Some asshole two bunkers down fires up the night.
Tracers rip wire and dirt and cans.
Flares blossom overhead,
swing down under dorky white chutes.
You stare out into bright light
at dancing black shadows.
Black comes back.
Your night vision is fucked.
And Charlie's out there.
You can feel him.
jim
