SARGE'S BOOTS...
Or... To the Rear...... CHAAAAARGE!
Screaming!. in-your-face, all the time, humiliation
Stripes. at least three, that gave him total control over our minds and bodies
Again the screaming... waking you from a sleep that seemingly began just minutes ago
Satan's soul mate!... smiling!... as you stumble the last few steps of a long run
Smirking!... taunting!... knowing he doesn't have to crawl beside you through the choking filth!
More screaming because you dropped 'HIS' rifle. if it's his, then why doesn't HE carry the damn thing?
... and clean it?
Punishing you and others with pushups because of another who couldn't keep up!
Pushing you!... pissing you off!... because he could!
Surely he knows that any one of the platoon would have killed him . given the chance?
I mean who the hell did he think he was with that Smokey hat anyway. God?
Hate!... filled with a hate that consumed. hate. that was righteous!
Hate!... that ruled. that... mellowed, into a
`we'll show that asshole we can handle anything he dishes out' attitude
Then... a realization
... that the latest kick from his size 11 combat boot to the rear ends had dislodged our heads.
We were a team!... a fighting force!... he was giving us the tools to succeed!
... to win!
... to LIVE!
For that boot in the butts. thanks Sarge!... you sumbitch!!