Chosen Man

by Chris Sharpe

As the sun goes down, the moon and stars arise
and soldiers “stand To” alert for enemy spies

Listening out for contacts from afar
Riflemen prepare to fight where they are
Then the crack and thump of an AK round
and the clatter of men forced to the ground

With a loud shout, “contact front”
all standing to shoulder the oncoming brunt
The calm and composure of their training takes hold
As they all crawl forward into the Earth’s fold

With one movement there’s momentum forwards
And the sergeant screams “now fix your swords”
They all take aim squeezing their triggers
Every round that hits mortally disfigures

Then silence, smoke and sand
Our chosen man lies dying in that far away land
My friend, my brother I can’t make it right
I’m sorry that this time we just lost the fight

And as the sun rises and I feel his deathly ghost
The Bugler stands tall and plays the last post

Christopher Sharpe
MMXVII

Chris Sharpe spent over a decade in the British Army with the Rifles. Serving tours in Northern Ireland and Afghanistan, he now writes poetry about his experiences with conflict and the mental health challenges he’s faced since.

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This first appeared in The Havok Journal on September 10, 2019.