Mike Subritzky - Poetry by Mike Subritzky - Poetry - http://maxpages.com/nichola/Mike

The Nurse

A blinding flash of light, darkness, pain and confusion. Shouts of
"Medic!", "Incoming!", "Dust Off! Dust Off!" Gut wrenching terror,
sightless, cold and afraid, dumped into a poncho and thrown aboard a
chopper. Borne away by the Valkyrie.

The organised chaos of triage, the smell of blood, fear and disinfectant.
Head wound, burnt hands "You'll be OK Kiwi, we'll put you back together
again son". Feel the jab - curtained within the void. Drifting in and out
of confusion, day becomes night, becomes day. Sightless and alone, the voice
of a woman, the smell of flowers, soft fingers on my pulse. Thermometer in
my mouth.

Days and nights and more days, head bandages removed, blurred shapes and
movement, I see her white uniform, lipstick and smile. Mind clears as my
body heals, my world is a small and lonely room, she comes every hour
between midnight and dawn. Soft fingers, beautiful smile, thermometer in my
mouth.

Mind of a warrior, and still the hands of an invalid, body heals, but ever
so slowly. Chart corrected each hour, she appears hesitant to leave and I
learn her name is Fiona. As I heal and yet remain infirm, my young mans
body responds to the touch of warm hands and the cold brush of the sponge.
She smiles and I smile, but the embarrassment of my desire remains.

Walking now, staggering with assistance, a first bath, relax and forget.
But still my hands and head are sutured. Dark nights take me back into the
noise, danger and confusion. Another long night, another sponge, and yet
another damned embarrassing moment. She smiles and I smile, and yet the
embarrassment remains unchecked.

My first visitors from the bush, covered in sweat and mud gather about my
bed in rotting and torn camoflage. Young mates with old mens eyes and
weariness. In the darkness of night the fear returns, she touches my face
and comforts me, bandaged hands and a mind full of scars. One more long and
lonely night, she tells me that her papers have come through, she's going
home. Posted back to Australia.

Her last night on duty, and my last sponge. Yet again I stir and the
embarressment returns. Our eyes meet and lock, her index finger on my lips,
a furtive glance, she closes and locks the door. Crisp white uniform, the
smell of flowers, lipstick and raven hair, she straddles me. Skirt raised,
gusset drawn to one side. Index finger on my lips is replaced with her
lips, a single moment of tenderness in this whole frightening conflict. No
passion, just release...and tears.

They wheel me out to the chopper pad and I watch as the door gunner lifts
her aboard, crisp white uniform now replaced with starched crisp camoflage.
Our eyes meet, she mouths "Goodbye". I watch as the Valkyrie bears her up
and away from her battlefield, she is flying home to husband, house and
kids...and I am bound once more for the jungle and chance.

Mike Subritzky

The Sentry

The wind is crisp, it blows from the West, and the moon slips behind a cloud.
It is 4.45 as I rise half alive, feet numb, fingers numb, and the barrel of
my rifle a dark silouhette against the grey dawn sky...Duty!

Tussock cold and wet about my legs, webbing tight about my waist, boots
stumbling blindly towards the machine gun post.
Test the phone, check the gun, turn up the collar of my combat jacket, back
resting against the wet clay walls of the pit...One hour till dawn.

Eyes blur, mind wanders, thoughts of home wife and kids; water bottle
presses against my back, knees draw up, helmet and head resting between them
for warmth.
Time drags, mind plays tricks on my vision, heaven would be a warm bed or a
hot cup of coffee...Half hour till dawn, test the phone.

Dawn nears, hills take shape, trees take shape, to my front is the back
menacing shadow of a field gun; lethal against the skyline.
The tannoy clicks, the phone rings, "Stand To!" is quietly passed by word of
mouth, human shapes move quietly, each in the direction of its' own slit
trench...Silence.

Experience shows this to be the most likely time for an attack. Time
lapses, nothing moves, save only the chill wind blowing gently through the
tussock...Silence.
Birds break into song, the first rays of the new dawn sun burst forth
spreading warmth and life into everything it reaches out and touches; and
for the Regiment another day begins..."Stand Down!"

Mike Subritzky

AIR ASSAULT

Thumping down the valley floor,
contour flying - open door.

Squadron's choppers in a line,
the Air Assault goes in on time.

Heart is pumping - temples too,
Cobra Gunships - standing to.

Caribina locked in place,
try to hide my fearful face.

Check my bag and check my rope,
God give me some bloody hope.

Rifle slung behind my back,
Grenades and ammo in my pack.

Machine gun belts cut in my neck,
join the Gun Group on the deck.

Two fingers up - two minute test,
check my kit and do my best.

Chopper flaring - out the door,
stand on skids and count to four.

Throw my bag - back and behind,
Go! Go! Go! - you're on the line.

Thumb up bum - rappel to earth,
clear the line and hit the dirt.

Pull the pack strap roll away,
God just get me through this day.

Mike Subritzky

Spirit of ANZAC

They clad us in the colours of the forest,
and armed us with the weapons made for war.
Then taught to us the ancient trade of killing,
and lead us to the sound of battles roar.

So give us comfort as we lay down bleeding,
and pray upon our cold and stiffened dead.
But mark our place that we might be accounted,
this foreign soil becomes our graven bed.

Now children place upon this stone a garland,
and learn of us each Anzac Day at dawn.
We are New Zealand's dead from distant conflict,
our sacrifice remembered ever more.

Mike Subritzky

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Page Updated Wed Jul 26, 2000 5:52am EDT