Onward Into The Valley Of Death

‘Mother, if I should die, can yer thank the sergeant for me?’ typed the teacher, imagining that he were back in Iraq. Fightin’. Fightin’ them bastards. Fightin’ in the blazin’ heat which had bein’ doin’ nothin’ but burnin’ through his brain, riddlin’ it wi’ searin’ pain which blistered his thoughts an’ burst into the heat of the rifle slung by his side. The rifle that was his life. That would save his life. Trained. To kill. Cool and calculating, despite the pain blastin’ through the silent desert which waited, eyein’ him evilly as the intruder he knew him to be. ‘Aye.’... ‘Thank t’ sergeant for bein’ a right bastard. A bastard who bloody taught us to survive. Survive. Big word that. Survive. Get by. One day to t’ next. Nowt’ to do but bloodywell survive. How to? That were t’ question. Survival counts. Like seconds. Like last drops o’ water drippin’ from t’ tap.’ On he typed. Memories floodin’ back t’ tears. Madness. Halucinations. There he were in front o’ kids tryin’ to call bloody register an’ all he could register were his mates wi’ same surnames as he was callin’ out. Bastards. Fuckin’ got him the cunts. Goin’ down t’ list. Mate after mate. Faces flashin’ up. Situation. No escape. Balls up. Round o’ fire. Flame-thrower. Torched. Gone. Onward into the valley of death Rode the six hundred Why Iraqis to the left of them Afghans to the right of them Where Into the valley of Hell Man province Rode the six hundred Oh how brave they were To go blindly where Generals had blundered Into the desert storm Rode the six Hundred Spreading democracy Where Blair and Bush plundered When Hans Blix thundered Into the valley Where all acts are Numbered Among the six hundred Maimed, mutilated and wounded Lives squandered In the valley Where rode The out-numbered Seeds planted In the poppy fields of Flanders

Where the war weary groaned Stranded When the words Of Mass destruction Were handed To the Generals To the right of them And cowards to the left of them Whilst Christ on the cross Was being Remembered Souls by swords were sundered As the prophet motive murmured

Why How brave Were the six Hundred Murdered By Blair and Bush Herded Sewing the seeds Of democracy Furthered In the valley where rode The out-manoeuvred UN dodgy dossier inspectors Stumbled On the words Of Mass Destruction Which rumbled And thundered With the canon balls Which flew In the wind Of change To the right and left Of the silence hanging Whilst waiting On The six hundred Answers to the questions Muted By the democratically elected

Wounded Few Soldiers In the valley Of death Which the silence Out-numbered The murmured profit Slumbered In the banks Which crumbled Beneath the debt Of private inequity Funds Which tumbled Once the traders rumbled To the six hundred Men, women and children Guantanamo.... Oh mowed .....Down In their prime t.v. slot-stretched out in the valley where there road wept blood and sweat the Birmingham six hundred words wounded ded Dad Dead Went the weapons Of Mass Destruction And death Was the plough Share index Which fell to far hire Than six six six Hundred.

He’d write. Fuckin’ Sergeant ‘d be goin’ mad. Said ‘buggers could hear yer think. Hear yer think. Knew yer thoughts afore yer did yersen. Bastards. How could they do that? He were fuckin’ right though. Bastards could hear yer think. Scent yer. Sense yer were out there. Thinkin’. So yer’ had to stop. Stop thinkin’. Stop breathin’. Just listen. Listen. Listen. Listen til yer could hear t’ bullet wingin’ it’s way wi’ your bloody name on it. An’ then yer could think. Then yer bloody well had to think. Fast. Fuckin’ fast. Sharpish like if that bullet weren’t goin’ to bury itself somewhere in yer brain an’ you wi’ it out in this God-forsaken shit-hole of a place. Hear it comin’ before t’ trigger were pulled. Sense it. Sense the fear o’ t’ other out there as his sweaty hand started to squeeze t’ soft moist metal as he whispered some daft prayer up into t’ night sky. Mid-day. Dogger. Fischer. Called out t‘ names. Names o’ departed stood there gapin’ up at him. Waitin’ for him to do something. Anything. Think. Survive. Mechanically get on wi’ job. Stop thinkin’. Switch off. Act. Re-act. Re-enact t’ scene he’d rehearsed. Re Hurse. Geoff Hirst. Footballer. Spurs.Martin Peters. Names exploded in his memory like shrapnel. Lodged there. Became him. Took over his thought processes. At the helm. He wavered in a sea of uncertainty. Expectant, smilin’ faces staring at him as they started to quizzically wonder. ‘Y’ar right, Sir?’ Get a grip. Got to get a grip. Survive.