The Pact

The Pact

They buried the body in the olive grove,
Liberated the Luger and the Iron Cross,
Mementoes not of the day, of the death,
But the ache of injuries done before.

Why he was alone there was not clear,
An Abwehr officer, head bare, book in hand,
Smoking a cigar and reciting to himself,
Words softly cadenced, innocent of war.

Pausing, interrupted, his rhythm broken,
He turned to the tired faces watching him
And smiled, perhaps in surprise, perhaps
In triumph, seeing men feral, unsoldierly.

They shot him, shared guilt with revenge,
Signed their hardship with a personal round,
Body undone with bullets, pages bloodied,
Verse ripped from its bindings, fuel for a fire.