SKELETONS IN THE WIRE

~ 1 ~

Kids yell in small voices louder than the tracks,
Noisier than the squeak and creak and rattle,
Shout above the voice of Bengal Six, which cracks
On the radio. The kids are part of the battle.
Children crowd the road, standing so near you wonder
Their feet aren't run over, mashed like their cousins
Or brothers who fired at you near that hill over yonder
Three days ago, when the troop and the gunships pinned
The bad guys and killed them with mass-produced thunder.
The smallest kids wear shirts, or nothing at all.
They smile, laugh, point with middle finger alone.
Bigger kids stand apart; they glower, stretch tall,
The future for those who will come after we're gone.
A can of grape jelly arcs through dusty air,
A can saved from the C's, kept for hungry kids
You hoped would crowd the road as near as they dare.
A small kid reaches, but he doesn't touch the lid
Before a bigger kid, with menacing glare,
Knocks him aside. You know it isn't fair.
Is that why we came here? So the big kids will win?
You know the enemy now. He'll pay, just like his kin.
The next can of jelly you throw with well-aimed vow.
Big kid makes a grab, and your ham and limas tin
Hits him in the head. He takes a dusty bow.
Chalk up one for Democracy, Man.
Skeletons in the wire.

~ 2 ~

Choppers scud in beneath low gray clouds
That threaten rain or another dreary day.
Pilots adjust rotors, whocking blades grow loud
As skids settle on the hilltop of dark red clay.
A solitary bamboo hut sits beside the trail,
And off to one side, a stone and plaster well.
Several LRRPs search the hut that seems so frail,
Its bamboo old and dry. Then a LRRP yells,
"All clear!" A rope, one end anchored now,
Is thrown into the well, and Neimann makes his way
Into the dark shaft. Others near the well prowl,
Searching, listening. We jump as a sudden ray
Of sunshine pierces the haze, illuminating us all.
But the sun is only a tentative, passing thought,
Erased by clouds that perceive the threat and wall
Back again, absorbing the hilltop, the light caught
In inextricable bonds of gun-metal gray.
Neimann climbs from the well, his face colored like lead.
Coiling the rope, he has nothing to say,
And walking away, simply shakes his head.
From somewhere, four women are escorted forward,
Herded through the grass, feet tripping on shadows.
Guards set their faces, eyes confused, yet hard.
Suspected enemy sympathizers, you know.
The women weep. So do the children in their arms,
Children too small but to toddle on short legs.
We help the women board the chopper, deny harm,
Buckle them into seats while they cry and beg.
The turbine whines to life, and we don't hear the tears.
We lift off. It's a lousy day to fly.
The sky, thick and dirty gray, is far too near.
I sit behind my gun, watch the trees blur by.
The chopper scuds in beneath low gray clouds
That threaten rain or another dreary day.
Pilots adjust rotors, whocking blades grow loud.
We land in a compound of dark red clay.
ARVN soldiers claim the suspects, lead them away.
Our job is done.
Skeletons in the wire.

©Copyright 1993 by R.C. Merriman

Author’s Note: It is said that following some battles of World War I, the dead were so numerous there was neither time nor people to collect the bodies. And so the bodies lay, entangled in barbed wire in front of the trenches. Eventually, heat and rats, birds and worms picked the bodies clean, as Nature intended. Then, there were only skeletons in the wire.