E
There was artificial thunder this
morning, when we were digging the trenches close to the second
perimeter fence, with machine guns facing us as we work.
The official camp noticeboard says
they’re “for our own protection”.
I swear if there’s a phrase – in
any language – I would NEVER want to hear again it’s “for
your own protection”, or “for your own good”.
Above all else: survive.
The second perimeter fence is twice
as high as the older one. I can’t see where the entrance/exit is,
but I’m sure it’s somewhere close to the “official” one: the
paved drive/walkway where “they” come in.
We come in through a tunnel
and that, ironically, keeps us safe when the sudden bombardments
happen.
* * *
They look like birds: the bombers.
According to the rules of the Camp, the correct term is “enemy
planes” but anyone fighting “them” is my friend.
They come in low: the bombers.
Silently: until they’re close enough to do some damage, and then
they wail.
Like I wailed when I was arrested.
Like my friends wailed when they were bayoneted and left to bleed to
death in the streets.
“Hey look! Ha! I’m a surgeon
now! AAAAA-”
My best friend tried to put his
duodenum back together with his hands. Died in mid-screech, like a
hysterical pig falling off a cliff.
They have funny faces painted on
them: the bombers. At least: they would be funny if they weren’t
doing what they’re doing right now: framed by the rising sun.
Wailing. And dropping things.
And since I’m in a new section of
the trench it means I can’t get to cover in time. One moment
there’s wailing: the next…
I dive onto the ground: land on my
stomach and put my hands over my head. The ground shakes. Now I’m
in the air with soil in my mouth.
I don’t think I’ve ever moved
this fast outside a vehicle or aircraft. Inevitably: I stop.
My back collides with the mesh-work
that makes up the fence. I’m stuck to its barbs: several feet above
the ground. With limbs thrashing and thoughts melting from my head.
Eyelids frozen open. The world around me gone: to leave those
magnificent streams of blue light coming from me like whips of
lightning.
Above all else: survive.
When there is no feeling left in my
husk of a body, the fence loosens its grip.
The soil is completely ejected from
my mouth when I land on the ground again and my lungs have finally
given up.
With my final ounce of strength I
roll onto my back, and look up at the yellowish-purple sky.
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