The politeness of no mercy

He crouched in swaths of army green,
Black combat boots done tight,
His hat sat clumsily, tipped forward over yellow hair
As he stared into the night.

He cradled his gun in swollen hands
That still bore fiery blood,
He had his orders, he locked his gaze
And began crawling through the mud.

Around him a chorus sang out,
Of screams and quieter moans,
Violence and loneliness,
Of shrapnel wounds and broken bones.

He blocked the sounds
Without a pause; too late to help them now.
His own salvation lay across the fence;
He would reach it this time, he vowed.

A shot rang out; a single blast,
Just like in the old cartoons.
He sunk deeper in the sludge, slits for eyes;
He could not be found too soon.

A voice shouted and broke through the dark,
‘Attack!’ it cried with hate.
He shook his head, clenched his fists,
And wished they could have waited.

The line was so clear now,
A thorned thick silver fence,
Where a small blue Wren perched,
Ignorant of all suspense.

He dared not whistle, lest he gave himself away.
But nodded once to the little bird, wanting only to be in its place.
His gun was brought up as he scaled the shining guard,
And he ran without once slowing is pace.

The bullets flew thick from both sides of the line,
But somehow managed to reach the other side.
A man stopped him just before the trenches, no older than himself,
And shoved a barrel to his heart, forcing fake pride.

“No mercy.” The young man whispered, fear filling every word.
“But it’s easier to shoot a man when you cannot see his eyes.”
“I know.” He replied, yellow hair shining in the sun.
“Yet do it. I am sick of all these cries.”

The blast forced him to the ground, black rushing in his sight.
He had always wondered when it would be his time;
With no family to go home to
He found himself always on the front line.