Читать книгу No Man’s Land - Logan C. Jones - Страница 7
ОглавлениеNo Man’s Land
The old farm house seemed huge,
mansion-like in all its secrets and
out-buildings with their weathered boards.
His room was upstairs
where it was hot and musty,
bathed in a yellow haze of light.
An old trunk kept his gas mask,
cartridge belt, and helmet.
The helmet carried a dent
from a sniper’s bullet
or so the story went in the family.
These war relics made for great battles
in the backyard where we would climb out
of the trenches, going over the top
into No Man’s Land. Artillery shells would
burst overhead as tanks led the assault.
There would always be a mustard gas attack
which would leave us stricken and
flailing on the ground where we would
end up laughing. These battles
were epic and we never ran out
of tobacco sticks for rifles.
Our casualties always got up for lunch.
My grandfather was a sergeant
in a machine gun company
with the American Expeditionary Force
in France.
I never heard him speak of his war
and I never speak
of mine.
