Ballade Of The Guard Commander Poem by Gert Strydom

II

At dusk the sun sets fiery red
behind the bushes
where in beauty it brings tranquillity to the bush-veldt.

There are guards that I inspect as commander
where they stand neatly in a platoon
and I look at them one after the other and then right through them

walk to the guardroom on top of the shooting tower
and in the camp in the operational aria
every thing is in order, the guards are capable.

Early in the evening another officer
comes and plays a game of chess
and we drink icy glasses of beer

but when it gets later their is silence and peace
as if it’s just another evening in a thousand
and for some time I am still attentive to my duties

until the shadows draw out long against the walls,
my non commissioned officer starts to yawn
and I lie down on my camping bed

telling him to take charge, while I get tired
and sleep closes my eyes,
when an explosion wakes me.


II


Somewhere in the camp another bomb explodes,
I grab my firearm instruct the shooting tower to start firing
and fear is in me – that the general is going to come.

Tracers cut tracks through the night
torches are fired into the sky
and outside it’s bright as day

and we fire into the bushes
while I cannot determine where the enemy is
and do not really know where the firefight had started.

In the camp another bomb explodes,
I see a trooper throwing a hand grenade
and I am totally astounded

and fear is in me – that the general is going to come,
what am I going to say about what is happening here,
what am I going to report about the men below him?

It’s clear that it’s no enemy attack
and on the watchtower I lift my rifle
and when it resounds it’s an own man, an acquaintance

that I shoot down before he throws some more hand grenades
and everybody thinks that an enemy bullet pierces him,
while they shoot into the bushes and fire at will.

III

The morning is grey
and rainy when the day breaks
while there’s fear in me

where I have got to give account
about wounded men in three tents
and the death of one I carry with me,

while soldiers are on patrol in the bushes
and with a knob in my throat,
I know that no enemy is there and feel tired.

When I notice a helicopter it is clear that the general is coming
and the Lord knows that I had to shoot an own man,
but what will I show him of the preparedness of the camp?

With narrowed eyes
we wait on the parade ground
and eight of my men are wounded.

The dust rises from the turning blades
while the helicopter lands
and the blades turn slower.

Out of the cloud of dust three figures walk
with the general looking inexorable,
while my ears sing from the noise of the aircraft.