PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I was just bimbling along , brain in neutral. When all of a sudden, some bastard turned the lights on. Now lots of people will say, that tracer is pretty impressive, and is a wondrous sight to behold. But I'll tell you, people, when it's coming towards you, and, you can see every one of them coming.

Believe me, it puts the shits right up you.!

Death is now staring you, right in the face. Bodies fell over like skittles. Right/left/right. I went forward and down, facedown. My chest and elbows, hit the ground. Then my face hit. It smashed into the grass and mud, and, into the sheep shit. I tried to lift my head up, and get my face out of the shit (literally).



I couldn't move, panic started to set in. I used my elbows for leverage, I moved a little , then was face down again.

My God I'd been hit!! It was the only reasonable explanation. But where?. I couldn't feel any pain, no holes. It's the shock , my brain told me. You won't feel anything because of the shock, the pain will hit you later. Right, I've got to find out where the wound is ,before I lose what strength I've got. and I'm not able to move at all.I rolled to my left, it wasn't easy. A couple of flies, buzzed past my head. I looked up, to my right. It was like one of those cartoons, on TV. Where the gopher, or Bugs bunny, digs a tunnel across the golf course greens. Little bits of grass, and mud were leaping in the air just like on TV, amazing.



Then I saw my antenna, the top section, and at least half of the next section, was stuck into the ground. That's why I couldn't move!, stupid bastard. I hadn't been shot, it was the radio. The smack I'd felt, that split second after I'd hit the deck ,was the weight of the radio slamming into me.I giggled, chuffed to fuck. What now? That was the question. I looked back, to where the tracer had been doing it's Bugs Bunny impersonations. Nobody was moving, the tracer continued its sweep left.



Suddenly, one of the skittles, leapt up from where he'd been lying, and started to zig-zag, bobbing, and weaving.I willed him on , crazy bastard, you're going to die, he jigged right, mad bastard, run for it.

Yes......

I promised to myself if he makes fifteen metres, I'll get up and go too.The tracer had stopped and switched. Homing in on him,yellow/white flashes of light, slicing through the still morning air.There still hadn't been any noise, up till now,just the flies.There did seem to be a lot of flies about though,it must have been the sheep shit.Well,I thought.If he makes thirty meters,I'll definitely go for it.While I'd been watching,I'd slid backwards,(more like the reaction to the tracer),and managed to free my antenna.



The runner went down, the tracer was zooming over his head. I stopped breathing. Everything stopped. I could visualise the Argy gunner on tip toes, looking over the breech, beyond the barrel, to see if he'd got one.



He hadn't. Skittle number one, was crawling like hell, towards a fold in the ground. He rolled into the dip, and was gone from sight. I was up, and lumbering forward. Bodies were moving in a multitude of directions. One thoroughly pissed off Argy machine-gunner, started up again. But it was like swatting at a fly on a table top. And he'd missed! Now the air was thick with flies, and he didn't know which one to go for. Not me! My brain screamed, not me! pick somebody else. I was doing well, there was some thick yellow gorse, ahead of me . The childish element had re-entered my brain once again. The gorse will hide you! go for the gorse. Don't be silly; it's sharp, and spiky as hell. I could hurt myself.



The radio. If I go in backwards, using the weight of the radio in my Bergen, it'll take me right through the middle of the gorse bush and out of sight. Yes. A fucking excellent idea. Let's do it . I had actually managed, to build a bit of speed up, as it happened. I suppose a little bit of adrenaline and a lot of fear does that to you. I half leapt, semi-spun into the air, as I got close to the gorse. I tried to hold my head up. But my back was arching. Like they used to teach you at school. The Philsbury Flop high jump technique, of the seventies. It wasn't style. It was the weight of the Radio in my Bergen, pulling me down. I hit the gorse. I bounced. Then I bounced again. I thrashed my arms, and legs. Nothing. I just thrashed. I lay there, like a stranded turtle, on a posture sprung mattress. Bobbing up and down. The tracer, swung my way. I did the only thing I could . I laughed. I couldn't do anything else. I think the laughter was just changing to racking great sobs, cause I was really starting to lose it. When the top branches snapped, and I fell through the bush.



I reckon that the Argy machine gunner, must have been laughing his bollocks off too. Cause he missed, and it all went high, and over the top. Reality, had set back in once more. I was yet again in the shit, (sheep of course). The soft stuff stank to high heaven, but the hardened pellets dug into my knees. I was crawling along a tunnel (obviously made by the local sheep), about as fast as a man can, who has just tried to hide, behind a prominent yellow gorse bush. From several hundred individuals armed with a machine guns, which could demolish the proverbial brick shithouse wall, in under five minutes. What a dick. I just hoped none of the lads saw me, they'll take the piss for a week, if they did.



I looked around, to see how many others had made it to safety, at the bottom of the steep incline, that was known as Darwin hill. After a quick check, I came to the conclusion, that there was only me. With my back to the hill, the sea was on my right, and nobody else. To my left, was where the bad men were , and that's an understatement. (Later described as poor little conscripts , who were mistreated and underfed. Not from where I had been sitting .) Perhaps they've already started up the hill, without me. Right, I thought nothing for it, I'll have to go up the hill. No cover after I leave here though ,could be a bit of a problem. Crawl. Now there's an idea, brilliant one, too. So, I started to crawl up the slope, armed with my radio, and my trusty 9mm Stirling Sub-Machine gun. After God only knows, how long, I noticed, I was getting quite near to the summit. Which meant, I was going to be seen, by just about everybody on the island. I would also, probably have to stand up. Quite honestly, I was fucking knackered. I stopped for a rest, and looked over to my right , from where, there was quite a lot of smoke, and on the wind, the sound of heavy small arms fire, to see who was there.



However, there wasn't anyone really close to me. In fact, checking the left flank, brought the same conclusion. I had at the bottom of the hill . I was on my own. Right .



I checked my mag, and made sure the breech wasn't obstructed, got ready to get up, and do a one man assault, for the top of the hill. Then, I had a better plan. I was on my own up here. At least there were lots of people on the right flank. There was a hell of a fire fight going on. I crawled off to my right, and started back down the hill, towards the smoke, and the fire fight. If I was going to die, I was not going to do it on my own. I wanted to at least, see a friendly face. Some one I knew. I went off to find the lads.