Four men lie
slumped in a pit,
the earthy hollow
cast in a twilight
of high noon.

Corporal Bendix
is section head;
a leader of men,
he shoulders responsibility
with his webbing,
he pockets the guilt
for his squad.
But his jaw is not set
his gaze is not square,
instead his eyes are bewildered
as he hides his face.
And the dashing smile
as he plans the next raid?
Lost in the firefight, I’m afraid.

Four men lie
slumped in a pit,
the turgid air
transmitting the surge
of mosquitoes.

Private Probarker –
number one gunner,
one hell of a shot.
He could have cleaned up the scene
when fighting fit,
but he gets so buggered
just carting his load.
He has great cushions of muscle
and he runs every day,
but now his body trembles weakly,
dead with fatigue.
What of the skill
and the fine figure he once made?
Lost in the firefight, I’m afraid.

Four men lie
slumped in a pit,
the sheen of sweat
betraying the presence
of summer.

Private B. Baker
is radioman,
section satellite;
he emits telltale noises and a
ten-foot antennae –
he’s number one target
in this squad.
But gone the brash confidence,
cut short are his boasts.
Instead he weakly curses the box,
shocked with insight.
And the tomfoolery,
the arrogance once displayed?
Lost in the firefight, I’m afraid.

Four men lie
slumped in a pit,
their twisted hands
clutching the comfort
of cold steel.

Recruit Harvey, D.
is a rifleman;
a rifle with a boy,
he has no responsibility
and no extra gear.
He runs, shoots and kills
before he dies.
But he’s young and confused,
his training laid bare;
with his mind questioning detail
and why he is there.
What of the excitement,
the chance for which he’d prayed?
Lost in the firefight, I’m afraid.

Four men lie
on exercise;
reserves taking a break
from the costly firefight
of everyday life.