Scribe Under Fire

Scribe Under Fire The wall had been there for an eternity closing gaps of time and sacred places field stones memories and gentle caress Hans could not write any longer any shorter it was too loud and far too quiet the truth did not escape the lonely fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand already in previous senseless exchanges luckily he was born tough and left handed before right became wrong and left was a crime When the trenches had become thicker with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts gore debatable glory and forlorn medals Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise his nostrils became scorched while his ears refused to hear and to listen any much longer Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets his molten fountain pen fused with his mind and he fought for his life his sanity and one terminal act of kindness morale and advice Hans could not release even one more shot from the gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’ It had been a modern war and someone must have known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder but when they executed him with clean merciless shots from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting September 2018