333. MILITIA MAN

MILITIA MAN
Once I was sent by the army to break heads
and crack people's hands with hammers. It
was supposed, of course, to be a simple task,
the very sort that warfare is made for. Soldiers,
made to take orders and nothing else, are - in
that respect - a truly stupid bunch. I myself,
to speak frankly, thought really nothing of it.
Blood, the crunch of breaking bones, the
shrieks of panic and pain - who cared?
-
Only much later, when I saw the crippled boys
left behind - that one without an eye, the other
an arm AND a leg both missing - did I attempt
second thoughts; but they too passed. After all,
what did I care of results, and who would listen
to me? I'd been paid my measly Roman salt,
this fucking root of salary's word, and I never
left a body behind to rot. Whenever I could, I
buried my lot, under at least a FEW feet of solid
dirt. A few feet of solid dirt; even that was
more than I ever got. But I was okay with
that, I did my job and took the flak.
Service in wartime is brutal.
There ought to be better
than that.
-
'It's songs like this
that never have an end.
I'm sick of it all, and don't
want to hear it again.'
Militia Man