Before the storming of the Casinga trenches
The past was going in seconds
while I was being sheltered
behind a small wall, with bullets,
mortars and rockets
whining and exploding, dark was everything,
dark was all
with death spreading its tentacles,
gripping mostly the enemy
bringing them to a fall
but for those barely out of range,
covered by trenches
the change from living to dead
were only minutes away
but the present was catching up with them,
with sniper bullets, mortars homing in
and hand grenades arcing dead on target
and the enemy trench lying straight ahead
to win the battle, the only way to tread
and the future of living or dying
was drawing down on the intersection
of the order: to take the trench.
[Reference: Full Moon At Tierz: Before The Storming Of Huesca by John Cornford.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Trench charge
Firing from his hip he was running,
with the light machinegun kicking
dressed in a brown army uniform
running towards a trench
while bullets whistled, swished past him
with some kicking up dust around him
and like a machine functioning
at perfect speed and timing
he lobbed a grenade
somewhat like a cricket ball
but with a deadly sting
into the trench
before dropping behind a small stone wall
waiting for the explosive cracking sound
giving instructions with hand signs
to the troops that followed him
and when it came
he let of a few bursts
with the light machinegun
on its folded out stand
before half-terrified, filled with adrenaline
he started running again
with his troops following him,
shooting from the hip
and at the enemy trench
jumps straight in
spraying soldiers dressed in olive green
with flaming hot bullets,
smelling the fumes of cordite,
mixed with sand and death
with every breath burning
in his chest and throat
without time to really think,
just to comprehend
and to react, noting dust flying
from the wall next to his head
were passing enemy bullets were slamming.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Have Floated Through The Sky
I have floated through the sky
while bullets whipped by
and on that day
my God sheltered me with his wings,
sheltered me from exploding things
from rockets, grenades
and even in
the valley of death
walked with me
and helped me to see
the horrific disaster called war
and the tragedy that it enacted
on the innocent, even on soldiers
forced to be there as enemy.
poem by Gert Strydom
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It is not that God has no pity (in answer to Yehuda Amichai)
It is not that God has no pity
on adult soldiers, who crawl
on all fours
and that He only cares
for small children and much less
for children at school,
any fool could believe this gibberish,
but when bullets whistle past your head,
you see comrades and the enemy dead,
how rockets penetrate through
the thick steel armour of tanks
and armoured cars
how grenades, landmines and bombs
explode shattering
you know that mere men
are doing and continue doing
these evil war things
and when you live through
this kind of hell
and come out unscathed,
still living
when your should have been dead,
you know that you are really worshipping
a loving and pitiful God instead
of the merciless one
that some are painting Him
as He has accompanied you
right through the dread.
[Reference: God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children by Yehuda Amichai.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Living With The Enemy
I gave you all that you wanted
and still you come back for more
You say that you're brokenhearted
but then you walk out the door
Maybe it is time for us to say goodbye
Where are the tears you never cried?
Hey baby what you got on your mind
are you looking for some sympathy?
I can tell you if it's a truth or a lie
'Cos it's just like living,
living with the enemy
You got me going in circles,
I'm slowly loosing my head
What did I do to deserve this,
you make me wish I was dead
Tell me I'm wrong and I'll be on my way
See you around another day
Hey baby what you doin' tonite?
Are you giving me the perfect dream
I'm so tired and I don't wanna fight
'Cos it's just like living,
living with the enemy, enemy
Living with the enemy, living with the enemy, enemy
Living with the enemy,enemy
Living with the enemy, living with the enemy, enemy
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The shadow of Cain (a reply to Edith Sitwell)
Man did not heed the cloud,
the cloud looking like the hand of man
and I saw lightning falling from the sky
and it was manmade,
thunder that exploded in flame
came down and down again
and in the dark clouds of death
the sun was blotted out
the bright cobalt sky was torn away
and men died as if being dolls made of clay
but on the hands of the living
the marks, the shadow of Cain remained
as killers of fellow men, slaughters in war
of a enemy
decided by politicians
whose hands were covered in blood
and these soldiers were young once,
only boys just out of school,
whose manhood, humanity had been stolen
and now were bomb happy
half crazy soldiers
who wanted nothing more than peace,
who needed tranquillity
and on their knees knelt to the living God
and sought his presence
while coming back from the bush,
from war, the fires of hell
begging forgiveness for taking killing shots,
for launching rockets, mortars
and throwing grenades to remain living
and was now torn in body and soul
and never complacent
offering their lives to the Greatest of generals
not knowing how to dispel
their own suffering, memories
and overpowering guilt
that made some weep
and they trusted
that the gates of hell
and eternal damnation
would be smothered, quenched
by the blood of the One
who died for all
knowing that He did not die in vain
and offering Him the pain,
standing in His shadow
as mortal men
true to the living king
when the day of Judgement comes
as did the thief on the cross.
[Reference: The Shadow Of Cain by Edith Sitwell.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Cassinga jump
Fear and tension was written over the faces
of paratroopers next to,
in front and at the back of me
when the red light
began to flash in the Hercules
and we went to action stations
still skimming barely over the tops
of taller trees at about two hundred feet
and most of us had two weeks earlier
been home at our civilian jobs.
One paratrooper vomited
right over me in yellow stinking
half fermented food
and the retching smell
made me nauseas as well
while the aircraft pitched steeply
with its last-minute manoeuvres
coming to jumping height
of eight hundred feet.
Mushroom clouds left by exploding bombs
billowed up from Cassinga
and in trenches I saw
people shooting upwards at us
and suddenly bombers dived
through our formation.
The sticks in front of me jumped
and air rushed into my face
at the open door
while the pit of my stomach went numb
and I stepped into space
falling, falling and seeing
a rocket-propelled grenade exploding
near the aircraft above me
and it veering away.
While the opening parachute jerked me up
I heard the deep roar
of a anti-aircraft gun
shooting from below
and it was clear that we
had jumped later
than we were supposed to
or the dropping zone
was too small to take
a full stick
of thirty-two paratroopers at a time.
We were dropping about
five hundred meters farther south
than were we should have been
and a strong wind
was driving from the northeast.
We landed in wooded terrain
which made grouping very difficult
and among the trees were drawing fire
before even touching down.
Immediately after hitting the ground
I returned fire
and the enemy fire became more sporadic
and we assaulted the group of buildings
that intelligence identified as the enemy
engineer complex,
running into groups
of our own B and C companies
and for a time was shooting at each other
before realizing it was own forces.
We were just taking the engineer complex
now formed up with the other soldiers
when we came under rocket attack
from RPG-7’s
and had to kill the crew
at a enemy B-10 recoilless gun
where I threw several hand grenades
and then ammunition stores
in the building complex started exploding
but only one paratrooper was wounded
when we took up our stop-line positions
to block off the escape route
lying south from Cassinga
and the anti-tank platoon was sent away
to set up a tank ambush
on the road running from Techamutete.
By this time I had picked up an enemy
LMG and more than enough
ammunition for it
and shot from the hip
at any movement that I saw
and until then it had been
easy as pie.
Then the commander of our company
left some men at the stop-line
and about twenty of us
along with him
went to the enemy vehicle park
where we ran into a crowd of civilians
fleeing into the surrounding bushes.
I opened up with the LMG
as we launched the attack
in the direction
of the lowered anti-aircraft guns
and we entered the trenches,
finding some civilians there,
but heavy fire came directly
from behind them.
It turned into a matter of killing
or be killed and even the women
that we met were armed
and in enemy uniform
and I lobbed hand grenades
into the next leg of the trench
and kept firing from the hip
and was splattered in blood
by a woman’s body
that was blown right out of the parapet
and what was left of her
was still in green fatigues
and blown to shreds.
Then I had nausea again,
retching uncontrollably
and somehow I stared to cry
with tears running down
my cheeks,
but like a machine moved on
seeing enemy soldiers
scrambling from the trenches
to replace the ones killed
at the three lowered anti-aircraft guns
with a bravery running near
to madness.
The closed quarter struggle
were worst than fierce
and cruelly savage
and we could only clear
just one leg of the zigzagging
ditches at a time
with supporting fire helping
from the outside.
There were screaming and crying
women and children among the enemy
and we had to kill or be killed
and a chill ran through me
and the noise was just terrible
with mortar bombs exploding
at the anti-aircraft guns,
shooting from almost
any direction onto them
and bullets ripping the walls
of the trench next to me
and I almost choked in the smoke,
dust and cordite fumes enveloping me
and finally those trenches were cleared
and the anti-aircraft guns stopped firing.
[References: LMG= Light machine gun. Read my poems Cassinga and Wings of destiny, for a full account of this battle and what happened when South African paratroopers faced enemy (Cuban) armour.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Wanting to know if I am all right?
I dream about a helicopter
that is whining chattering
while I am shooting clattering
with the machinegun in the door
and in the dark night
I see tracers drawing lines
to down below
and see the enemy run
in the silver light
cast by the moon
and in the distance
a bolt of lightning falls
just past a place
were a torch hangs in the air
like a small sun
and it’s as if a rocket propelled grenade
zooms in from below,
brushes past
exploding behind us somewhere
and when I awake
I am still twitching next to you
and you touch me comforting
and want to know if I am all right?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Forced to meet an enemy in a rifle's sight (in answer to Keith Douglas)
Forced to meet an enemy in a rifle's sight
a unknown man appears, scratches his head,
he lights a cigarette, draws on it until it glows,
looks at a photo in a way that only his wife knows
his attention moves somewhere up ahead,
to some ibises in their screeching flight
the crosshairs move to his heart bit by bit
while mechanically I test the wind,
thoughts of his family life now means nothing
while on the trigger my finger is pressing,
and no escape can a mortal man find
against full metal jacket bullets that accurately hit.
l'Envoi
Far too familiar is death's smell,
when every soldier is more machine, than man,
far too familiar are the sounds of bullets whining,
the sight of bodies lying lifeless,
as putrid rotting human flesh, heartless,
the horrors of war are undermining
the essence of being human,
as soldiers live afterwards in a daily kind of hell.
[Reference: "Now in my dial of death appears" by Keith Douglas.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Straight Ahead
Day by day, dream by dream.
I fight to find the way to go.
Every day opens a different door.
Every dream shadows the one before.
But slowly I can see
The way youve made for me.
Straight ahead, I can see your light.
Straight ahead, through the dark.
Straight ahead, theres no left or right.
Straight ahead, to your heart.
Carry on through the night,
When the road is hard to find.
Lying lights tell me to turn around.
Lying thoughts tell me Im lost not found.
But clearly I can see
Youre waiting there for me.
Straight ahead, I can see your light.
Straight ahead, through the dark.
Straight ahead, theres no left or right.
Straight ahead, to your heart.
Straight ahead, (straight ahead),
Straight ahead, (straight ahead),
Straight ahead, (straight ahead),
Straight ahead, (straight ahead).
Straight ahead (straight ahead), I can see your light.
Straight ahead, through the dark (through the dark).
Straight ahead, theres no left or right.
Straight ahead, to your heart.
Straight ahead....
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The havoc of war
a Smoking and burning
enemy battle tank
stands stopped in its tracks,
like a metal coffin
with its occupants
still hatched in.
a BRDM enemy armoured car
is encased by leaping flames
and the phosphoric burning smell
is churning in my guts.
Some dead Cuban soldiers lay
cut from the stem
mangled in blood and guts
and the machinegun is still chattering
and I wish to be,
in another place and time
than to be a part
of this slaughtering.
a Bleating Gemsbok rushes past
trying to outrun the flames,
that leap through the field
while the machines of war
brings death to the living.
Shot after shot is fired
at killing range
and it’s hot and deafening
inside the Ratel,
but the wind
brushes through my hair
where I stand
in the top hatch
and trees and bushes
sweep past
as if screened in a movie house.
Enemy armour keeps exploding
and my voice sounds strange
and unfamiliar to me,
while I give directions
for the next killing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bleeding Edge (Death Poem)
Change is living every second.
For me, it is the spice of life,
Proof that I am not dead – yet,
Living on the bleeding edge today.
Changeless, death by boredom.
For some, it is the sea of tranquillity,
Proof alas, that dead can also be alive
Living, but dying by seconds daily.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Under a African sky
The sun burns furious
and the harsh reality,
of a live in the semi desert
of the Kalahari
is set in my mind.
There are some bushes
growing in this arid land,
with red sand
stretching as far
as the eye can see,
but they are riddled
with large white thorns.
A Group of bushmen trackers
are gathered round a fire
and are drinking tea,
near to the huts
where they live.
It’s time to go and we set out
into the bush,
with two trackers
running in the lead.
One is carrying my R5 rifle
and we follow
in a fighting formation,
with armoured fighting vehicles
and armoured cars.
The LMG becomes heavy
in my hands
and sweat are running
down my cheeks.
Every hour or so
the trackers are changed
and we keep following the tracks,
for hours without end
and then reality is frozen.
Rpg-7 rockets whistle past
and the sound of enemy
AK-47 rifles and mortars,
are almost everywhere.
We return fire at dark dots
and every moving thing
becomes prostrate
and the dead enemy are gathered
and I feel like puking;
and some troops are smoking
and it’s just another day
under a African sky.
[LMG=> Light Machine Gun]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Goodbye now to the bush
Goodbye now to the bush
and patrols that go on
almost endlessly,
ration packs that never really differ,
the sun rising over unknown places,
death and hardship on unknown faces,
bullets flying past
and rocket propelled grenades exploding,
the stark mad bark of the LMG,
but I wonder how long
this piece will last.
[Reference: LMG => Light machinegun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Few Minutes in the Dark
A few minutes in the dark.
What kind of dark?
No light shining?
Depression?
A reality check?
A few minutes in the dark can change you.
Change you how?
Change your outlook of life?
Change your personality?
Cause you to sin?
A few minutes in the dark is dangerous.
How is it dangerous?
Swallow you up in fear.
Never feel happiness.
No more friends.
No more family.
No more love.
No more life.
No more light.
A few minutes in the dark is scary.
You see the evil in the world with no light.
You lose your light for a few minutes and soul dies.
You lose a person, a loved one, every single second.
You lose sight of them and they're gone forever.
A few minutes in the dark and you cant see anything.
No more things that coused you joy or filled with love.
A few minutes in the dark.
It takes only 30 seconds for a child to be kidnapped.
Then after that, they fall to the darkness.
Soul burned out, and love gone.
Another life fallen to the darkness.
A few minutes in the dark.
When you left the light, there is no turning back.
A few minutes in the dark, and you lose sight.
Lose sight of the light.
See what happens in the dark?
A few minutes in the dark.
Causes death.
A breakup between lovers and one points a gun to their head.
A few minutes in the dark and you die.
The light will be sealed from you along memories.
Memories of light and love.
The two things the dark can never have.
Light and love.
A few minutes in the dark.
And you cant remember your friends.
Did you even have friends?
A few minutes in the dark can change your way of thinking.
Reminding you of death at every corner.
You wander forever not ever finding the light.
A few minutes in the dark will change you forever.
Happiness always has its sadness.
Sadness always has its happiness.
Where there is life, there is death waiting around the corner.
Where there is death, there is life some where waiting.
Death is darkness.
You cant find your light if you cant handle a few minutes in the dark.
And maybe people are still stuck in the dark and we dont notice.
Reach your hand out and show them the light.
Everyone around us may look happy but they dont see the light.
A few minutes in the dark is a very sad place to be in.
Your blinded and confused.
you dont feel love and people all around us will always be in the dark,
waiting for a friend to pull them out.
There will be better days
poem by Natalie Vail
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Depression
My liking for life has been stolen,
A thief came and took it away;
A visitor bent on destruction,
A burglar from hell, you might say.
I see via dark tunnel vision,
With the edges so dim and opaque;
My senses have been all but flattened,
My sanity now is at stake.
I see nothing good in the present,
My past is a far nicer place;
Of the future I may have been due to,
I see not a feasible trace.
The burden of living is heavy,
So heavy, and hauling me down;
A quagmire of dark contradictions,
Swamping my smile with a frown.
I decide to be done with this torment,
And make the decision alone;
I threaten the thief with eviction,
In the midst of my mind-battle-zone.
Almost robbed of all mental possessions,
I still know what's wrong and what's right;
The deceiver, in all of his glory,
I'll fight and I'll fight and I'll fight.
With the sword of the truth I then stick him,
With the shield of my reason, deflect
All his arrows of poisonous lying,
His falsehood and fear, I reject.
Now my liking for life is returning,
The enemy forced to retreat;
The hope in my heart, reappearing,
The thief? he lies dead at my feet.
Written June 1995
poem by John Carter Brown
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These Men
Men moving in a trench, in the clear noon,
Whetting their steel within the crumbling earth;
Men, moving in a trench ‘neath a new moon
That smiles with a slit mouth and has no mirth;
Men moving in a trench in the grey morn,
Lifting bodies on their clotted frames:
Men with narrow mouths thin-carved in scorn
That twist and fumble strangely at dead names.
These men know life – know death a little more.
These men see paths and ends, and see
Beyond some swinging open door
Into eternity.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Defeating An Enemy
We live in a world full of enemies,
or so we are lead to believe.
The best way to defeat an enemy
is not with bullets or bombs.
The best way to defeat an enemy
is to make that enemy a friend.
poem by David Harris
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Cassinga
Just like spring when the blue sky is full of falling leaves,
there are three hundred and seventy parachutes that decent,
on a ominous day
with enemy AA-guns reporting
and the enemy are more
than a thousand and a half in number.
The barrels of the enemy AA-guns are lowered,
to break us
and the enemy tries to sow havoc
and to decimate us.
Enemy snipers are shooting from trees
and from everywhere
there are shots being fired,
that munches pieces from us
From behind ruins
we fire almost endlessly
at trenches where some enemy soldiers hide
and launch mortar bombs
all over the place,
while bullets are coming down like rain.
We return heavy fire
to the enemy at the AA-guns,
while other soldiers replace them
which keeps the battle hanging in balance
Shot after shot are being fired
and the smell of death
is strong in the air
and there’s nowhere
for the enemy to escape to.
The last resistance disappears
and there’s apparent peace
and dead enemies everywhere
and some of the bats,
get into pumas
and the rest of us wait
with nowhere to go.
The border is too far to walk
and there’s nothing to drive away with,
when Cuban tanks and armoured cars
find us there.
.
With RPG-7 iron fists
four tanks are destroyed
and a landmine stops another tank in its tracks,
but only paratroops against oncoming armour
are canon feed
and nothing diminishes the danger
of a Cuban mechanized battalion.
Till two Mirages destroys ten armoured cars
and everywhere there’s smoke and dust
and a Buccaneer comes from the sun,
to let moments turn into eternity.
Time after time
it flashes by and fires its rockets
at the oncoming tanks
and with no ammo left,
dives fearlessly over shooting AA-guns
to make the tanks take cover.
It’s very ruff going
but the last pumas land
in a clouds of dust,
to evacuate us
while enemy tanks keep firing.
I try and hold the rearguard with a LMG
before the shot out ruins fades away from me
and we leave forty living enemies behind
and all of us are safely gone,
but for four brave men
whose lives are spent.
[References: AA-guns=> Anti aircraft guns. Bats=>Parabats=>Airbourne soldiers. RPG-7 iron fists=> Rocket propelled grenade launchers=> Bazookas. Mirages=> Mirage fighter jets. Buccaneer=> Buccaneer ground support bomber. Pumas=> Puma helicopters. LMG=> Light machinegun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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O Living Always--Always Dying
O LIVING always--always dying!
O the burials of me, past and present!
O me, while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever!
O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not--I am content;)
O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look
at, where I cast them!
To pass on, (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind!
poem by Walt Whitman
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Battle
1.
Noon
It is midday; the deep trench glares….
A buzz and blaze of flies….
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs….
The great sun rakes the skies.
No sound in all the stagnant trench
Where forty standing men
Endure the sweat and grit and stench,
Like cattle in a pen.
Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs
Or twangs the whining wire,
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs
As in hell's frying fire.
From out a high, cool cloud descends
An aeroplane's far moan,
The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends….
The black speck travels on.
And sweating, dazed, isolate
In the hot trench beneath,
We bide the next shrewd move of fate
Be it of life or death.
2.
Night Bombardment
Softly in the silence the evening rain descends….
The soft wind lifts the rain-mist, flurries it, and spends
Itself in mournful sighs, drifting from field to field,
Soaking the draggled sprays which the low hedges wield
As they labour in the wet and the load of the wind.
The last light is dimming. Night comes on behind.
I hear no sound but the wind and the rain,
And trample of horses, loud and lost again
Where the wagons in the mist rumble dimly on
Bringing more shell.
The last gleam is gone.
It is not day or night; only the mists unroll
And blind with their sorrow the sight of my soul.
I hear the wind weeping in the hollow overhead:
She goes searching for the forgotten dead
Hidden in the hedges or trodden into muck
Under the trenches or maybe limply stuck
Somewhere in the branches of a high, lonely tree -
He was a sniper once. They never found his body.
I see the mist drifting. I hear the wind, the rain,
And on my clammy face the oozed breath of the slain
Seems to be blowing. Almost I have heard
In the shuddering drift the lost dead's last word:
Go home, go home, go to my house,
Knock at the door, knock hard, arouse
My wife and the children - that you must do -
What d' you say? - Tell the children too -
Knock at the door, knock hard, and arouse
The living. Say: the dead won't come back to this house.
Oh… but it's cold - I soak in the rain -
Shrapnel found me - I shan't go home again.
No, not home again - The mourning voices trail
Away into rain, into darkness… the pale
Soughing of the night drifts on in between.
The Voices were as if the dead had never been.
O melancholy heavens, O melancholy fields!
The glad, full darkness grows complete and shields
Me from your appeal.
With a terrible delight
I hear far guns low like oxen, at the night.
Flames disrupt the sky. The work is begun.
'Action!' My guns crash, flame, rock, and stun
Again and again. Soon the soughing night
Is loud with their clamour and leaps with their light.
The imperative chorus rises sonorous and fell:
My heart glows lighted as by fires of hell,
Sharply I pass the terse orders down.
The guns stun and rock. The hissing rain is blown
Athwart the hurtling shell that shrilling, shrilling goes
Away into the dark to burst a cloud of rose
Over their trenches.
A pause: I stand and see
Lifting into the night like founts incessantly,
The pistol-lights' pale spores upon the glimmering air…
Under them furrowed trenches empty, pallid, bare….
And rain snowing trenchward ghostly and white,
O dead in the hedges, sleep ye well to-night!
poem by Robert Nichols
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