JVD

This fighting’s not with flags.
Armies don’t march to battle.
It’s unpredictable, most of it,
no slaughter, no safety, just
forays somewhere–desert now,
it’s become, or green cover
it was–nobody showing.

Sometimes a unit’s ambushed.
They scramble, a comrade is hurt
maybe killed by explosives
which, half buried, they must
answer–fearful, sweat-soaked–
peering through dust or trees.
Then the attackers withdraw.

Grief marks a face, maybe tears.
Having patched the wounded
and called in the dead, they wait
in silence, looking at nothing.
Out of a whirlwind comes
the chopper. The lieutenant
consults a map. Those left walk
on, seeking invisible enemies.