The Sentry

The wind is crisp, it blows from the West,

and the moon slips behind a cloud.

It is 4.45 as I rise half alive, feet numb,

fingers numb, and the barrel of

my rifle a dark silhouette against

the grey dawn sky. Duty!

Tussock cold and wet about my legs,

webbing tight about my waist, boots

stumbling blindly towards the machine gun post.

Test the phone, check the gun,

turn up the collar of my combat jacket, back

resting against the wet clay walls

of the pit. One hour till dawn.

Eyes blur, mind wanders, thoughts of home,

wife and kids; water bottle

presses against my back, knees draw up,

helmet and head resting between them for warmth.

Time drags, mind plays tricks on my vision,

heaven would be a warm bed or a

hot cup of coffee. Half hour till dawn,

test the phone.

Dawn nears, hills take shape, trees take shape,

to my front is the back

menacing shadow of a field gun;

lethal against the skyline.

The tannoy clicks, the phone rings, "Stand To!"

is quietly passed by word of

mouth, human shapes move quietly,

each in the direction of its' own slit

trench. Silence.

Experience shows this to be the most likely

time for an attack.

Time lapses, nothing moves,

save only the chill wind blowing gently through the

tussock. Silence.

Birds break into song, the first rays of the

new dawn sun burst forth

spreading warmth and life into

everything it reaches out and touches; and

for the Regiment another day begins. "Stand Down!"

©Mike Subritzky

1974

FSB Westlawn