The Soldier

Barely Eighteen,
crouching in the scrub,
paint covers his face,
sweat beads on his brow.
Silent as a shadow,
locked and loaded
he watches like a hawk.

Grenades on his belt,
an M-16 in his hands,
a heavy pack clings his back,
laden with food and gear.
He peers intensely through the scrub,
a trained Killer,
Barely Eighteen.

A movement on the edge of his vision,
he exhales and turns slightly,
without a sound,
signaling to the men beside him.
An enemy off to the right.
Muscles tensed,
heart racing,
he brings his weapon up to sight.

Staring through the scope,
zeroed in on the target,
he lines up the cross-hairs,
minuscule lines,
with a lethal job.
His finger trembles slightly,
he blocks out his fears,
he is a trained Killer,
and he must do his job.

Depressing the trigger,
the gun kicks back
expelling the bullets.
A quick burst,
that finds their target,
sinking deep into the flesh.

An eerie silence
settles in the wake
of the burst,
the body jerks,
and slumps to the ground.
The Killer’s first kill,
a job well done.

He starts to shake,
realizing what he has done,
his comrades offering condolences
while a lone tear
slides down his cheek.

A report rings out
from across the way,
followed by another.
No time for crying,
enemy gunfire erupts.

The soldier ducks for cover,
emotionally shaken,
he turns towards his friend
just in time to see his head
destroyed and mangled.

He turns away,
curling into a ball.
A broken spirit,
he openly sobs
until a bullet finds its target.

Entering his right arm
it passes through into his torso,
puncturing a lung,
ripping through his stomach,
it erupts triumphantly out of his body,
just above his left hip.

He lays bleeding,
forgotten in the firefight
he passes into shock,
his eyes glazing over.
He slowly turns cold.
Killed In Action,
Barely Eighteen.

&copy Joshua Bryant Cole