Maiwand
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: 1. Written in honour of the Maiwand Day 130th anniversary.
2. I tried to do my research as thorough as possible, but it's admittedly a hasty study, please just tell me if there are any historical errors. Thanks!
The March
Merciless, the white spears of July sun
The flow of heat waves already begun
Mouth dry as Helmand River you march
Struggling not to wither and parch
Without the knowledge of where and when
The battle could begin any there or then
Mutineers and rebels they may be called
The attack is still best when forestalled.
You know all too well that blood will flow
That both sides will pay, blow for blow
Meaningless hatred that no one tries to comprehend
Wounds even you cannot hope to mend
Yet here you are.
For Queen and country, for you Berkshire lions
Forward! Forward!
The Battle
The world is exploding or maybe just your brain,
You can't decide which and neither do you care.
Cannons blast and fragments rain
—you refuse to think what fragments. You've enough to bear.
Sharp sting of sulfur, laced with metallic death
You never knew that air could bite, there's pain in every sense
And should you thank or curse every choking breath
With gates of hell the only available defense?
Dust covers wounds faster than bandages could line
Every valiant struggle like a more desperate cry
No fear lurks their eyes, nor does noble resolve shine.
It's simple as aim and fire. No thoughts. No time.
Then there's the Ghazis.
Glint of steel through the blinding dust. Swords catching the rays
The land shakes with their fury, echoes their frenzied craze
You watch as men you know fade into those you knew.
Brown, with his black teeth and tent-rocking snore
Brown, with his naughty jokes and belly-deep chuckle
Brown, with his intestines visible through the deep slice he bore
—the one slice among many, and no time for a miracle.
Not with the fall of so many, many more.
'elp me Doc! 'elp…Watson!
You turn away with a new nightmare, chilled to the core.
The Retreat
Indians and Ghazis and confusion and fear
The line is blasted apart like waves smashed on rocks.
And indeed against the torrent bed you now pack
The dry torrent bed. Gaping. Mocking.
To Khi—
The world shifts.
You wonder what was just shouted, or why you are on your back
If only you never have to move again…
Sir, you're hurt! Sir! Doctor Watson!
The world jolts from its frozen shock.
Searing pain
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.
There are others wounded…
Stop talking, Sir.
The horse's moving blades dig into your bones
There's gunfire in pursuit. More men will fall.
You are aware of the blood seeping through the second compress
Good of Murray
There are others wounded…
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.
You look up. The sun snarls.
There's so much more I want to say, but...oh well.
I tried to make the whole thing just what it was-short and strong for the march, dark for the battle and disordered for the retreat. I hope that did not come out as utter chaos!