A man's finest hour (take 2)

By andrew-evans

Wed, 10 Nov 2010
  • 655 reads
2 comments
 

Back pushed up against
the sodden muddy wall,
with only a plank of wood
to perch his hined,
he draws in one final
deep breath,
then in an instant
springs into action,
it took him less than 10 seconds
to go from sitting,
to the time the first bullet hit,
and still he charged forward
stopping momentarily
to fire a volley of bullets
to clear the way,
friends, no, family
falling beside him
all life lost from their eyes,
but still he ran forward,
boots squelching in the mud
and hands raw from the biting wind,
after an hour of this,
running, firing, retreating
and charging forward again,
the enemy had had enough
and threw grenades from their trench,
which seperated our characters
arm from the rest of him,
the bleeding eventually rendering him dead.

Certificate U
Poem
Historical Fiction

Comments

Submitted by skinner_jennifer on
This brought memories of the first world war, the men in the trenches, how they lived in all that mud I will never workout. It amazes me what the body can take. All those soldiers that died, so sad. Jenny.

 

Submitted by andrew-evans on
I did indeed base it on WWI, and under this title, intending to give the view that the finest hour of a soldier is the hour in which he dies fighting, which is very sad and unfortunate.