The Iraq Conflict.
The Iraq conflict involved the Brits and the Germans. Not the Americans. But, mostly the Brits, so I guess that included me too. It would have involved the Russians and the French, but they weren’t around at the time.
The war grew through 1958, It was started by something contrite, Something hard to put a finger on, But not right. One thing it was definitely not born of And that was of hate.
It started with the flames of love, gently fanned by a breeze. One born of a gentle sunset, Across the face of the desert And Wadi Arthur.
It was one which climbed the heady heights of newly erected telegraph poles. Dizzy with its’ hard won and conquered prize.
The simmering and as yet unknown conflict moved from the burning heat, To the foggy island, on the day of remember, remember. That’s when disillusion set in, And the foot soldiers promptly left by the back door.
The setting was London, December 1960, Reserves arrived but the infantryman was too young, to know what misery lay ahead. A peace descended for only three years. Then, they all shouldered their burdens and marched away, into the unknown.
Unfortunately, over the next seven years, They were shot at by friendly fire, and hit. One of them sustaining broken ribs. They bore them with good grace, or so they thought. Only the bottle grew more and more empty by the day.
The foundation grew rockier and friendly fire got them again. This time in the shape of a knife in the back. Hatred and injustice growing all the time, Gnawing away like a disease. Then came real pain and the ability not to breath easily.
Medical units sprang to alert, Carrying the afflicted away. The cancer growing month by month, day by day. The army now depleted, it was the turn of the young infantryman. And still the bottle grew more empty by the day.
The young soldier became weary quickly. Was psychologically put upon; abused. Suddenly, News came. It wasn’t good. The old soldier was dying. Then just as quickly; dead.
There was no more friendly, familiar war fire. Only crying and grieving And psychological warfare. And still the bottle grew emptier by the day.
One day, the psychological pain and terror, became too much and the young soldier went AWOL. This was done with permission from those higher up, And only caused more pain and heartache
for the last lone member of the army. A walking casualty, no longer able or knowing in which direction to turn. And so the level in the bottle became lower.
The young soldier felt guilt at having succumbed, And so came and went, with increasing regularity. Until one day, they never returned. But left the wounded behind, intent on recovering themselves.
Then came that fateful day, that knock on the door to say, that that one last soldier that was left behind Was finally: no more. And the bottle was empty.
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