Volleys Of Shots Rang Out As We Stormed
Volleys of shots rang out as we stormed,
the trenches that were meandering formed,
in the distance snipers were firing from a wall
into the cover of the nearest ditch we did fall.
A trooper next to me suddenly smiled
and everywhere around us was death’s smell,
the winter sun was very weak but mild
while our ears sang from a mortar shell.
In succession into the trench we did leap,
I fired from the hip from the point of entry,
the light machinegun did chattering sweep
in a enemy camp in a bordering country
where as soldiers we had parachuted in
and a passing bullet burnt my arm’s skin.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Somewhere Near The Lomba River
The guns of enemy tanks are flashing
like bolts of thunder while I am glancing,
the night air is full of the smell of cordite
and luckily those shots are passing
while the armoured car draws to a sudden halt
for its gun to take aim and on my lips I taste salt
before the armour piercing shell is fired
and at a direct hit around me the crew exalt
before at speed we move on
and some more enemy Cuban soldiers are gone,
are burnt in the fiery hell
while my heart, my brain feels like stone.
An enemy shell strikes another armoured car
like a exploding flaming star
and I can smell torched human flesh,
while I wish to be away very far,
to be away from killing
and this chilling
kind of machination of machines and men
who at each other are firing
but to survive we battle on right through the night,
are still trying to find some more enemies in the broad daylight,
find two abounded stationary pristine enemy battle tanks
from which the enemy had run in fright.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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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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A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
Goodbye to the land where the sun always shine,
to the blue sky that always is bright,
goodbye to the light that comes every day
and hello to that midnight which is cold and dark.
A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
fading the sun while white vapour rose
out of a shot out armoured car,
I couldn’t close my eyes or look away.
Goodbye to that enemy tank stopped in its tracks
against a bank of earth
while my armoured car’s gun rang out
sending a phosphorus shell with fire from hell.
A rocket flew past with a flaming tail
like a star falling from the sky
before exploding against a tree with a blast
and goodbye to the enemy soldiers who fired it
while we moved past at speed
with a machinegun howling a great cry.
I heard that enemy commander weeping over the radio
while his frequencies were blocked
being in shock
and sounding like the voices of many men
crying in the anguish of death
as if a deadly net had been cast
and I wish that I could understand Spanish
but the noise was ear-splitting
and it was goodbye to tank after tank
and goodbye with blast after blast and going in quick
stopping, firing and running away fast
and every enemy armoured car we found
only got one shot
till the last shell had being fired
and tired we went to fetch some more,
ate in a hurry before being wished good luck
and going back to war.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Soldier (not really a poem)
the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,
poem by Joshua Decker
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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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The guard
We were observing, doing recognisance
on a enemy camp, had parachuted in
during the night, dropping from very high
and my comrades and I had leopard crawled,
catwalked from dark patch to dark patch,
from shadow to shadow
using the cover of knee high grass
and with the sun rising
was in a dense small bush
reporting back on tanks and armoured cars,
the number of soldiers seen,
how battle ready they seemed
when a little boy herded a few goats
and with a bone thin dog came along
and I let them go, not being able
to kill them as the enemy
and almost immediately we had to leave.
Soon hundreds of enemy soldiers
were dropped in search lines,
were trying to cordon us off
and my comrades wasn’t pleased with me,
as things could have been much easier
if I had killed that child
and we went into a river
cutting reeds to breathe through
and went under the surface
trying to shake off the enemy
that was closing in on us
and when the three of us left the river
some large crocodiles
were on the bank where we entered it
and we had the opportunity
to return to the enemy camp
where the next evening
an enemy Cuban soldier lit a big cigar
only a few paces from me
and the child was a far better guard than he.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The spoor
We were flown in
by a Puma helicopter
hot on the tracts
of a group of terrorists
who had attacked some farms.
A Bushman tracker was in the front
on the spoor, armed with a old R1,
two of the section
was armed with LMG’s
and I carried the a short barrel R5
and it was very hot
under a merciless sun.
The tracker told us
that one of the enemy
was wounded and at places
we saw drops of blood
and it looked
as if he was dragging his leg
in the way that he walked.
The going was fast
as we didn’t want to let them pass
the chop line back into Angola
and we were at a jog.
Suddenly in the distance
there was a firefight
and some shots rang out
sounding like AK-47’s
and locking our weapons
we hastened,
not knowing if another patrol
or who or what
had run into the enemy.
When got on the scene
the wounded terrorist was dead
trampled by a African Buffalo
who gored him
before setting on its enemy’s tracts.
He was left behind
by the group
who had come across an African Buffalo
and had fired at it,
only wounding that black beast
and had run away in the front of it.
The Bushman smiled and shook his head
laughing because of the actions
of the stupid terrorists
and we were hot on the tracks
of the Buffalo
following through a rocky dried out wadi
past some bushes
and into longer grass
when suddenly the eyes of the tracker
went huge as saucers
and he turned around
stumbled past me
and dropped his gun
on the ground right
next to me
running as if for his life.
This was quite awkward
seeing a man run
who had fought numerous
firefights with me
without a whimper of fear
now running as if
the devil himself
was on his heels
but the Buffalo
had turned around
on its tracks.
I saw that African beast
with eyes glaring almost red
and nostrils wide open
and horns lowered
and knew that my rifle
wouldn’t stop it
and if I didn’t I would be dead,
but the R1 would probably
since its larger full metal jacket bullets
could rip right through trees.
It must have been the quickest
that I have ever
picked up a gun
exchanging it for mine
bringing it to my shoulder
and started firing
and I could scarcely
believe my luck
when that buffalo bull
dropped there at my feet.
[References: R1= A rifle similar to the Belgian FN. R4= A rifle similar to the Israeli Gaelil. R5= a Shorter barrelled version of the R4 with folding stock, sometimes used by paratroopers and other special force soldiers. LMG= Light Machinegun. Chop line= Cleared aria on the border between South West Africa (now Namibia) and Angola.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Under fire at home
At times your were extremely happy
and impulsive, sometimes morose,
withdrawn or suicidal
trying to hide from the world
or sometimes even aggressive.
Your Manic-Depressive Psychosis
needed a scapegoat
to whip, to burn with molten plastic,
to cut and stab with a knife
and to shoot at with a gun.
You told me
that you had cheated me
with another man
while I was busy
with the computer
and smashed your heels down
on some software
breaking compact disks and started
kicking at the SCSI drives
of the computer.
I got really angry and told you
that in my eyes
you were nothing more
than an unpaid whore.
You didn’t say anything at this
and walked to the bedroom
and I went to the bathroom
to brush my teeth
and get ready for bed.
I have never been closer to death
than when you (my now ex-wife)
with my 9 mm pistol
fired right through
the bathroom door.
Five shots rang out
and the magazine
had nine more
and the bullets were hollow point
and nickel-tipped mixed
and automatically I kept score.
It’s another thing
to be fired upon
by the enemy in war,
but when your wife
go totally nuts
and bullets fly
just past your head
and one brushes your arm
things are out of control.
I didn’t have time
to lock the bathroom door
and took cover
next to the bath
on the floor
and you opened that door
pushed the pistol
against my head
and said that you
would shoot me dead
and I could smell
the burnt gunpowder
but your youngest child
tried to cover me
with his small body.
I should have left you then
and there,
have called the cops,
have had you classified as mad
but love sometimes
doesn’t ask for intelligence
and outreaches problems
on its own.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ballade of the guard commander
II
At dusk the sun sets fiery red
behind the bushes
where in beauty it brings tranquillity to the bush-veldt.
There are guards that I inspect as commander
where they stand neatly in a platoon
and I look at them one after the other and then right through them
walk to the guardroom on top of the shooting tower
and in the camp in the operational aria
every thing is in order, the guards are capable.
Early in the evening another officer
comes and plays a game of chess
and we drink icy glasses of beer
but when it gets later their is silence and peace
as if it’s just another evening in a thousand
and for some time I am still attentive to my duties
until the shadows draw out long against the walls,
my non commissioned officer starts to yawn
and I lie down on my camping bed
telling him to take charge, while I get tired
and sleep closes my eyes,
when an explosion wakes me.
II
Somewhere in the camp another bomb explodes,
I grab my firearm instruct the shooting tower to start firing
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come.
Tracers cut tracks through the night
torches are fired into the sky
and outside it’s bright as day
and we fire into the bushes
while I cannot determine where the enemy is
and do not really know where the firefight had started.
In the camp another bomb explodes,
I see a trooper throwing a hand grenade
and I am totally astounded
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come,
what am I going to say about what is happening here,
what am I going to report about the men below him?
It’s clear that it’s no enemy attack
and on the watchtower I lift my rifle
and when it resounds it’s an own man, an acquaintance
that I shoot down before he throws some more hand grenades
and everybody thinks that an enemy bullet pierces him,
while they shoot into the bushes and fire at will.
III
The morning is grey
and rainy when the day breaks
while there’s fear in me
where I have got to give account
about wounded men in three tents
and the death of one I carry with me,
while soldiers are on patrol in the bushes
and with a knob in my throat,
I know that no enemy is there and feel tired.
When I notice a helicopter it is clear that the general is coming
and the Lord knows that I had to shoot an own man,
but what will I show him of the preparedness of the camp?
With narrowed eyes
we wait on the parade ground
and eight of my men are wounded.
The dust rises from the turning blades
while the helicopter lands
and the blades turn slower.
Out of the cloud of dust three figures walk
with the general looking inexorable,
while my ears sing from the noise of the aircraft.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Parabats
Smiting death when we parachute in,
flying on silken wings through the sky,
gathered in a brown storm
that sweeps in
and the enemy like puppets perish
where we land.
We cannot give back life
like God to tformed clay,
yet we are forced to take away existence
day by day
with machinegun, mortar
and rocket propelled grenade.
Fearless men ready to endure,
trusting in God alone.
[Reference: Parabats=> South African airborne soldiers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The old savage dream again was back
The old savage dream again was back
of enemy tanks coming down the track,
useless the light machinegun was stuttering
as exploding shells made both my ears sing
while I could find no kind of escape,
events caught speed like a winding video tape,
I was firing from the hip without effect
had no ready rocket launcher to select,
heard the nearing enemy tank tracks groan,
while my limbs were slow, turning to stone;
from the blue sky a screeching eagle fell,
death was in its claws, triumph in its yell,
while it dropped scorching deadly flame,
heroic returning under fire to do the same.
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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On the other side of the Lomba river
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
bad weather hanging on the other side of the Lomba river
with tanks standing ablaze
nothing can stop the war clouds
(while the shots of enemy tanks resound)
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death
and Fapla, Cubans and Russians perish
and we also receive deadly shots.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
where we teach them a final lesson in Africa
when the enemy appear
but olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars are stuck in a landmine field
and howitzer canons fire
at the beginning of the slaughter
with tanks standing ablaze
and there are olifant tanks and Ratel armoured cars disappearing in the bush
with rockets raining down
when the enemy appear
which rip enemy weaponry into pieces
and division after division comes under restraint.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
and the canons of howitzers, tanks and armoured cars fire continuously
while the smell of death is everywhere
with rockets raining down
with few enemy being still alive,
with some leaving intact tanks, fleeing to survive
with tanks standing ablaze
and I am conscious of the inhumanity
and feelings of powerlessness
while the smell of death is everywhere
and the slaughter goes on and on
and human life isn’t important.
There are flashes hitting in the distance,
with tanks standing ablaze
and whatever you do or mean
nothing can stop the war clouds
and feelings of powerlessness
or stop the slaughter of the angel of death.
poem by Gert Strydom
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It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound
and the chopper drones away
leaving me and Johnny
and a few other men
with a Bushmen tracker
to follow a enemy spoor
and suddenly we walk straight in
to a ambush, right into a trap
and Johnny is dead, shot through the head
and three others as well and it feels as if I am in hell
and I am talking to myself
trying to get my bearings while firing at the enemy,
killing some and throwing two grenades
to advice them of my serious intentions
and the enemy shooting stops, as does that
of me and my men and I smell death
and are nauseous to the point of retching
and it’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Surprise Me Again
Well I remember the day when she said go away
I rearrange my hair
Well I cant take anymore
I bought some natural food
And then I fell on the floor
Well I cant take anymore
I need a change of address
By the way, why cant you smile
She said at first it was great
And in the middle I stayed
But at the end I was sick
I said Ive got to get out quick
Then you suddenly smiled
You took me by surprise
You suddenly smiled
You took me by again
Well I remember the time
Wrapped up nice and cosy
She was washing my hair
Well I was thinking of midnight, falling in love
Watching the rain fall
When we relax Im going to sleep on your chest
And listen to your beats
And lets go to norway, live in rain and snow
And get totally depressed about nothing
At all really hello
Then you suddenly smiled
You took me by surprise
You suddenly smiled
You took me by again
You suddenly smiled
You suddenly smiled, again and again
You cant smile
Then you suddenly smiled
You took me by surprise
You suddenly smiled
You took me by again
You suddenly smiled
You suddenly smiled
You suddenly smiled
You suddenly smiled
You took me by again
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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He was lucky
The BTR-152 lowers its heavy machinegun
and starts firing,
before the 90mm shell
knocks the hell out of it.
The BTR stand motionless
and white smoke rises
from it like steam
and there’s an acrid smell
in the air.
I jump down from Ratel’s dome
and through the smoke
a Cuban appears,
with hands above his head
and there’s a man unscarred
that should have been dead.
poem by Gert Strydom
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While Johnny and his section is on patrol
An artist paints a bushy landscape,
paints colours of a setting sun
with fleecy clouds hanging in the blue sky
while Johnny and his section is on patrol.
The canvass has a river where shots rang out,
an angry crocodile that tries to catch him,
black coots fly up and Johnny feels afraid,
when a trooper detonates a landmine,
three riflemen cover his position,
the enemy shoot with tracer bullets that draw lines,
they are caught unexpectedly by Johnny's return fire,
and flee from the very start of the fire-fight
with a wounded comrade that longs for God,
Johnny's men are brave and capable,
a soldier is shot to smithereens, lies droopy like a doll,
some distance away a hissing snake slithers,
to vomit is an unstoppable urge;
down at the marsh a long-tailed widow-bird flies.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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