Day the Music Died

trench

 

Clenching my M16 so hard my knuckles starts to hurt,

with incessant rain, my uniform covered with sweat and dirt.

Tension hangs heavy as the thick fog, waiting for the go ahead,

brother-in-arms conveys with his eyes the tension without being said.

 

Deafening noise of shells that keeps falling nearby keeps reminding us of danger,

chunks of mud and rocks raining down with it feels larger and larger.

Some wise men said “There is no atheist in foxholes”

everyone praying they were somewhere else instead of this hellhole.

 

Brief break in pace of shooting allows me to peek over the trench,

my sense of smell is overwhelmed by the smell of rotten body stench.

Just as I was recovering from the urge to regurgitate my K-ration,

a bullet ricochet off my helmet leaving me with a dazed sensation.