In Barracks

Germany, 1964 In barracks bare of beauty I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife of lifeless characters from some Saturday charade sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade. I merely pull my blanket higher up and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!" A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches so I scratch. Musty curtains run in dusty ripples on their pulleys. The room overflows with bullies but I turn over in my bunk and choose to spurn, scratching a spot that doesn't itch. I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty. I reach up, unscrew the bulb, lay silent in my patch of dark and try, vainly, to extinguish a more persistent spark. The air around me reeks of smoke and beer, is heavy with the weight of discontent. I lie still darkly fomenting an impotent dislike for atmospheres like this one. I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun and growl like some ancient, burly, and barbaric Hun. Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension with interjections "nice people" would never mention.