To Kill A Man.

©-November 11th, 2015

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio 

Matthew F. Blowers III

A quick glance  

at an abrupt change

in the sector 

you are focused on,

A distinct movement 

coupled with a visual blur 

in the distance that 

sharpens on your scope,

a revelation that

catches your breath.



Suddenly.....



in the fine cross hairs.

the enemy creeps stealth like.

towards your position,

a young, enemy face.

stained with dirt,

and laughing

at something

another soldier says

behind him.



At least two

hundred yards away

you click your dope,

and slow your pulse

as you figure elevation

and wind direction

then you get him fixed,

in your sights

where he will

soon be broken.



You relax your

whole body,

take in a breath and hold it

then blow it out slowly,

with the stock of your rifle

firm against your cheek,

that warm wood grain that

sun drenched feels

like a caress.



Then expertly squeezing,

gently on the trigger,

between pulses,

and breath blown,

till you don't even know

that it's been fired,

it should always surprise you,

with a crack and a kick,

into your shoulder muscle,

as the small victory is launched.



Long before the sound reaches him

he falls like a tent collapsing into

a rumpled pile of clothes, and flesh 

then are that remains,

are remains to be counted.



You mark a small

check on the butt

of your rifle,

and move quickly to 

another vantage point

of safety in this 

long distanced execution,

of men looking to kill you.



but His face will

always be there

underneath the

crossed hairs,

on your head,

and buried eternally

in the back of your mind,

plus his name 

if you are lucky enough

to count coup 

will also stick

with you forever.



You carry your dead

like a small scar 

on your soul even though

he would have killed you

just as quickly

and carried you as well

back home to a normal world



Even more

up close,

face to face with death, 

it is far more

hectic and personal 

the heated words,

and screams of courage

as the enemy runs at you.

The beads of sweat

and the stench of fear 

as two grapple

in hand to hand combat

arms and feet

striking at soft points

trying to take out a knee,

disintegrate a nose

or crush a scrotum, 

fingers attempting

to hook the corner of his eye 

to remove it and leave it

dangling by its optic nerve



Scrabbling for a bayonet

frantic fingers

yanking it free

fist locking

around it's heft,

feet back pedaling

scrabbling, 

from the slicing

of thin air,

and then rendered  flesh

that flaaa-wick slick  

sound as

blood spatters

in an arc over you,

and that strong foul odor

as bladder,

and bowels empty,

watching the stagger

of reality that he dances,

as you close in now

on your wounded prey



The begging sounds

as he stumbles,

breath wheezing,

trying  desperately,

to reach for a weapon,

somewhere just south

of his demise,

Then your blade

slips sideways

between his ribs,

so as not to

hit any bones

butter smooth,

it is buried

to the hilt 

and pulled out

just as quick,

in case it's

needed again.



Or much more

mercifully,  

you might take

a quick two-step

behind him,

away from those

ghastly eyes of fear,

shining whitely,

wetly bulging outward,

and then slash

a huge gash 

across his throat,

from one ear

to the next,

in a clean sweep,

and then

putting a foot

in the small of his back

to drop him.



Don't ever let

anyone tell you 

that war is full of glory,

gory maybe,

the copper stench,

of blood never

leaves your nostrils, 

and the sounds

of the dying haunt, 

the chambers of your ears

for many years



That smell of defecation,

as life leaves the body,

is beyond description,

The gaseous fumes

of a rotting corpse,

sweetly sickens

you to vomit.



Sometimes,

back home

you see a face,

in the crowd that

reminds you

of that man you killed,

and it shocks you,

and rocks you

back to that time,

till some small detail

makes you realize,

that it's just someone else.



No one ever talks

much about this,

no one really

wants to hear it,

War is so much easier

on T.V. in the stats, 

and in newspapers,

it's cleaner there,

processed, and dealt

out in small doses,

but in the trenches, 

the deserts,

and in the jungles,

men are even now

making memories,

that would loosen your bowels,

and steal your sanity,

They are taking tallies

that they backpack home,

and will carry for as long

as they breathe free air,

To kill a man is to own,

the nightmare of his passing.

Say a prayer 

for all Veteran's

who carry the scars

of your freedom

on this November 11th.