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Robin Ford

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Infantry

Smoke did it. He lived in fear of what
he’d see when it cleared but as if
it were a tunnel mouth in steam train days

clouds of it seemed to hang around.
All too much for one to bear, he seventeen,
his Queen’s boy, not yet his Queen’s man,

trained to react, obedience the only virtue,
reflection bad as treason.  Medals in service,
jail for the same outside.  Men being nearer chalk

than granite absorb and store.  Excitement first
with death crooked at a single fingertip -
first time he knew some power in his small life.

But his mate snapped under stress, blew out his brains
not twenty feet away.   Shocked at the threshold.
So much smoke.  Every night after damned

with nightmares of blood on wall
as though a crazy orderly had flung
the officer’s port around the mess.

Officially an accident.  And he couldn’t cry
but pressed his replay button time after time.
They’d taught him the skill to kill but not the words

to work out what death meant and when he lacked words
he used fists. Everyone copped it.  He fought to breathe
clean air again, clear the smoke that choked,

fingered his gun, took too much drink and far too many pills,
nearly tore the membrane of his own shocked life apart
with one more shot to frighten off the night,

made it through to mourning for his mate
but reached his winter before his spring had passed,
knew of summer only through the tales the others told.

Page(s) 14-15

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