Silent Night (Guerra de Nervios)
Inspired by the episode Dear Sis. Yes, I know it's a little late.
This is a night for the silent.
A night where Koreans would otherwise duel with the enemy shaded in green,
Marines would race to their deaths ashore at the hands of men unseen,
The lives of boys, not men, would hover in limbo deemed obscene,
An oasis surrounded by desert.
A night like this would invariably be spent inside an operating theatre, performing the same play each and every night as the dreaded whirr of helicopters' rotor blades passed them over. The bursts of incendiary indecency, far yet close, would punctuate an evening already filled with the words of the healing and dying.
Not tonight.
This is a night for the desperate.
A night where the Captains remember morale and how it was melted away,
Together the nurses, united they stand, an attempt to their fears downplay,
A Corporal mourns his father-at-heart, swallowed by guns and spray,
A vortex of anguish and gloom.
They're noplace, in the words of the Colonel. They're here, yet not here. All conversation has ceased in the camp as bodies leave "Back in 5 Minutes" signs on front doors and souls fly back home to capture a feeling thought lost, wandering thousands of miles away.
This is a night for the Lord.
The birth of his Son, most holy of evenings, just an extinguished flame,
Their faith is no more, replaced by the theatre of death, the loss is the same,
Bewildered they're not at gooks and Marines, each other they thoughtlessly maim,
His Son is no longer of use.
Attention is called to the snowfall outside. For a moment, hope flickers, a tiny wish that the powers that be - Fate, the Lord, General MacArthur - would soon bring about a welcome close to this, Korea's sideshow of slaughter. For a lingering second they share a joy. 'Tis a reticent, grim joy, admiring nature's art, yet bracing for the fall that lies ahead.
This is a night for the hopeless.
The doctors at work on the birthday of Jesus, cursing his failure to act,
The soldiers lie wounded under the stars, wishing their bags were packed,
The enemy's children, Sergeants-at-arms, their weaponry lacking in tact,
Together they suffer alone.
As they all knew it would be, the truce is shattered. He brought some Christmas presents for the weary. The play commences once again. Day players and extras alike trudge through the mocking snow towards the theatre. As he tends to a fallen soldier, an extra observes:
Everything else's closed on Christmas. The Lord needs something to watch.