Curt Bennett, 'The Sting'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Sting

Once again the morning crept as silent stood
The clearing. Slowly breaks the new born day
Of fuzz light in shafts of gray
Now split the trees of black. A jungle bird
Gives voice to song that few have heard
Save those who watch from thickened wood.

They see the gently rising knoll
Where in the center, tightly bound,
The white-man lay tied to the ground
With heavy ropes to thickened stakes.
How soft the whimper that he makes
As pain and agony take control.

The sweat is drained from thirsty pores,
His shattered clothes in tatters lie.
The bullet holes have crusted dry
In rusty scabs. While all around
The buzzing flies have swarmed on down
To feast upon the cracking sores.

There is the coolness of the shade
The squatting figures have no care
Or passion for the dying man. They are there
For bigger prey, he is but the bait.
There is no hurry, they can wait
For the rescue to be made.

And soon the tiny plane flies by
To circle 'round the open site.
What thing has happened in the night
That leaves a man tied in the grass?
What evil things might come to pass?
Perhaps its best to pass him by.

He makes a run, a token pass,
Then from the torn and broken ground
The dying man has heard the sound,
So near but still so far. He struggles to arise
His movements catch the pilot's eyes
….The fateful die has now been cast!

The FAC plane wheels beyond the hill
To radio back his frantic quest
For help. From the east and from the west,
The iron birds gather circling high,
Not caring if the bullets fly,
Hungrily they wait the chance to kill.

And down they swoop in screaming runs,
Now napalm spews its splashing breath,
And rockets "whoosh" from pods of death,
As cracking bombs flash brilliant light
And scything iron. The day is night
As rolling black clouds hide the sun.

And then, the stinging silence reigns once more.
The blackened trees and broken ground
Tremble, swaying to the sound
Of eerie silence. Slowly coming into view
The rescue chopper and its crew
Head down towards the meadow floor.

The rotor blades whack out their beat,
The skids slide inches from the trees,
Whose branches bend like flattened seas
Before the wind. Then like a falling stone,
The chopper hammers to the zone
Then fares and hovers in the heat.

The man below flails wild his head
And strains against the biding ties.
The bobbing helo fills the skies,
Blacking out his sun. From its door
The crew chief leaps from engines' roar
To cut him from his cruel bed.

Crouching low he makes his run
And slashes free the rope that ties
Too late! He sees the screaming eyes
And hears the trigger's muffled snap!
The blinding flash of booby-trap
Engulfs the two as one.

The Huey staggers with the stroke,
Binds and crumples with the heat
And slams to earth. The burning meat
Is mingled with the scorching fire.
A crackling, tumbling funeral pyre
Mounting with the greasy smoke.

Then sudden stillness softly sighs…
The crackling fire dwindles down
To blend with ashes on the ground.
The rolling smoke has lost its surge,
And now is but a distant dirge
That wanders trackless skies.

In time, the metal turns to rust,
As do the distant memories
In empty homes across the seas.
No monuments, no graveyard stones
Mark the weary warrior's bones
That sleep together in the dust.

by Curt Bennett