The Short War Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

They were the dark days,
of nineteen-sixty-seven,
he heard the call, so deafening,
though it did not affect him,
as these people were not his,
but questions did not then arise,
nor later, between the dreams
of joining up with Les Légionnaires,
daredevils with great skills,
and license, to kill the evildoers.

It wasn't much, his effort, really
the gratitude demanded extra,
protection of a guest from foreign lands,
six days, officially, really seven though,
it was concluded in a heap of hollow words.

On a green bus, the journey home,
clutching on jean-clad knees
a cardboard satchel bearing proof
of everlasting and historic glory,
the signatures of General Dayan
and garlic breathing Yitzak Rabin,
a little thing to show the grandkids,
at various times and ages, again,
and then perhaps again once more.