Ode to Calloused Indifference

By and large, they were on the march to defend their Motherland, because each of them was a Soldier and God was with each of them…

Well, specifically, their combat mission was to climb the hill, gain a foothold there and prevent the forward movement of advancing enemy troops. So, on they went, upward, in a march column, united by the common mission, duty, orders.

However, at climbing up, under their individual helmets, there spun personal thoughts or, rather, fragmentary thoughts clippings, different by each one, about that a whopper goal scored Barcelona at the last semi-finals, the sock in the right boot should be neaten tighter before the bitch fucks up the foot to bleeding, tell the younger brother to better look after the horse, but that girl from the parallel class at the prom, in her pink blouse, she's real cute and the smile she gave was a personal smile really, like, a promise, a sort of…

On the march each one loops thru the rosary of his personal clippings, while outwardly nothing but heavy breaths, up to hoarse wheezes, desultory boot treads are heard, yours and of your comrades.

So they marched up not knowing that the coffee cup drunk to dregs at the bottom had already been put aside, the fingers straddled the sheeny mouse in the dormant calm of control room swathed snug and evenly with the hum of computer technology…

The drone in the sky left the stand-by hover and took the tack for dropping a cluster bomb…

They did not do their orders, the mission fell through, they died on the march. All of their platoon. 25 GI's…

Later their parents will post shots of the boys in fatigues or parade crap on Facebook.

‘Help find the missing person!’

Forlorn hope. Everyone who knew the guy in the pic lay around him in riddled camouflage rags with stains darker than the darkest khaki, jagged holes torn thru greenish helmets.

All of the platoon…

Thoughts dried up, the bitch of a sock does not bother anymore, the bay horse Booyan crunches the bleak autumnal grass, Barcelona scatters for training in the soccer field, the cute girl, not in a pink blouse, wearing no smile, steps into a subway car, the operator hands the shift over to his partner…

...oftener and oftener they blame me for my heartless callosity. I do hope it's there after my efforts to strangle out any empathy manifestations in me, otherwise my heart would have burst since long in useless tatters.

Yet, even that way, by the end of day, the pulsing muscle feels squeezed so nastily…

Condone me, boys... here am I imploring you... let at least a single one... beg you for forgiveness…