FOB Rob. 4.30am.            Shaken bolt awake

   by the bass boom of the perimeter 50s.

Kit shouldered swiftly. Out into the dregs

   of a night flickering

                  blue black / bright white,

   strobed with bursts of muzzle flash light

to the stuttering rhythms of the firefight

   Faces tense and tight,

                              the sangar sentries

   shout target indications

incantations which hold you rapt.

                   Then the GPMGs begin to snort,

short bursts at first

   easing into the battle,

                   quickly joined by the rattle

of Minimis and chatter of rifles.

   Echoes crash                off the Hesco walls

jostling with the calls for

                                              Ammo! More ammo!

                  Keep low, keep low!

No sign of slowing.            Then a surge of noise

   as the mortar boys down in the pit

start laying air burst 81s,

                     a swaying dance,

                  bending and twisting away,

bending and twisting away,

   bending and sending dust unfurling with

each crump       and jump         of the tube.

 

   And there is beauty in this moment;

        beneath a hissing, tracer sky,

        braced together, we are one.

        Fear sublimates comradeship

        into something more than love,

        held in suspension for as long as

        a transformation we will not

        mention, come sunrise,

        silent slumped in the spoil

        of spent cases and strewn link,

        listening to the tink, tink, tink,

                of cooling barrels.