Charging the Turks
We are all down in the trenches, waiting for the drillmaster's whistle to blow.
In the trenches, we are typically safe, and it is dark and soothing.
Unless it is close to midday,
the only real problem is the bad smell, the buzzing flies, the decay, and the
anxiety of becoming one of the many bodies lying at our feet,
or rotting in the field out there.
When the whistle blows,
fix your bayonet.
The time will come when we are tested again and again.
Every day and every night the drillmaster's whistle might shriek.
We never know when.
Sweating and shaking with fear, holding only memories and no hope,
we are sent clambering up over the edge to make a wild charge together.
Brothers and sisters in arms,
into the face of machine gun fire, tripping into the razor wire.
It isn't really a test of bravery, will, or nerve, strength, wit, or speed.
It is a game of odds.
And the killing bullets aren't always bullets,
but craps rolls:
Cancer
Heart attacks
Old age
Dying in our sleep
Lawsuits
Tax assessments
Car crashes
Rape
Murder
Politics
Church
Servitude
Poverty
Abuse
The daily workday
A dead end job
Monotony
Not enough money
Lost hope
A lost dog
Love lost
Running out of gas
Forgetting our cigarettes
Not having money for beer
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