REPORTING FROM THE FRONT
The sun beat like a hammer, not a cloud was in the sky.
The
mid-day air ran thick with dust; my throat was parched and
dry.
With microphone clutched tight in hand and cameraman in
tow,
I ducked beneath a fallen roof, surprised to hear "stay
low."
My eyes blinked several times before in shadow I could
see,
the figure stretched across the rubble, steps away from
me.
He wore a cloak of burlap strips, all shades of grey and
brown,
that hung in tatters till he seemed to melt into the
ground.
He never turned his head or took his eye from off the
scope,
but pointed through the broken wall and down the rocky
slope.
"About eight hundred yards," he said, his whispered words
concise,
"beneath the baggy jacket he is wearing a device."
A chill ran up my spine despite the swelter of the heat,
"You
think he's gonna set it off along the crowded street?"
The sniper
gave a weary sigh and said "I wouldn't doubt it,"
"unless there's
something this old gun and I can do about it."
A thunderclap, a tongue of flame, the still abruptly
shattered;
while citizens that walked the street were just as
quickly scattered.
Till only one remained, a body crumpled on the
ground,
The threat to oh so many ended by a single round.
And yet the sniper had no cheer, no hint of any gloat,
instead
he pulled a logbook out and quietly he wrote.
"Hey, I could put
you on TV; that shot was quite a story!"
But he surprised me once
again -- "I got no wish for glory."
"Are you for real?" I asked in awe, "You don't want fame or
credit?"
He looked at me with saddened eyes and said "you just
don't get it."
"You see that shot-up length of wall, the one
without a door?
before a mortar hit, it used to be a grocery
store."
"But don't go thinking that to bomb a store is all that
cruel,
the rubble just across the street -- it used to be a
school.
The little kids played soccer in the field out by the
road,"
His head hung low, "They never thought a car would just
explode."
"As bad as all this is though, it could be a whole lot
worse,"
He swallowed hard; the words came from his mouth just
like a curse.
"Today the fight's on foreign land, on streets that
aren't my own,"
"I'm here today 'cause if I fail, the next
fight's back at home."
"And I won't let my Safeway burn, my neighbors dead
inside,
don't wanna get a call from school that says my daughter
died;
I pray that not a one of them will know the things I
see,
nor have the work of terrorists etched in their memory."
"So you can keep your trophies and your fleeting bit of
fame,
I don't care if I make the news, or if they speak my
name."
He glanced toward the camera and his brow began to
knot,
"If you're looking for a story, why not give this one a
shot."
"Just tell the truth of what you see, without the slant or
spin;
that most of us are OK and we're coming home again.
And
why not tell our folks back home about the good we've done,
how
when they see Americans, the kids come at a run."
You tell 'em what it means to folks here just to speak their
mind,
without the fear that tyranny is just a step
behind;
Describe the desert miles they walk in their first chance
to vote,
or ask a soldier if he's proud, I'm sure you'll get a
quote."
He turned and slid the rifle in a drag bag thickly
padded,
then looked again with eyes of steel as quietly he
added;
"And maybe just remind the few, if ill of us they
speak,
that we are all that stands between the monsters and the
weak."
©Copyright January 25, 2006 by Michael
Marks
