Drummer Boy

         Well now, I see you there, by yourself, pain etched upon your sullen mug. No. Don't get up. Lay where you are. So, why do I find you all alone here, my friend? Where are they, those men you carried into battle, those whom you made heroes? Where are they now, now that you need them? Oh! There they are, down the road! There they sit around dismal little fires, eating the rations that turned sour a week ago. Too bad your voice is caught in your throat; else you might save them from the slow death that is sitting in the metal bowls of gruel they scarf. I guess I could tell them, but I feel it's cruel justice. They were never nice to me; they never liked me. Besides, they left you here. Yes, you did not fare well in that last skirmish, but that's definitely no reason to leave you here, all alone, among the tall grass.

  Damn! Some young officer, barely off his mother’s apron strings is calling them to move. Chuckle. I'm sorry, but he has not even the years to take a razor to his face, yet he wants these men to come when he calls. Well, I guess they will not all get sick from that tainted feast. That is truly disappointing, for the worms that will not have their meal. And for me, I wanted to watch as they bend and contort with the cramps that are the preludes to a drawn out passing. Yet some will expire with the blanched faces and hollowed jowls.

Yes, I must really thank the cook for holding his nose and pouring in the slice. His judgment is a better dealer of death than the musket pellet that laid you low for the price they must pay. They saw you, but saw you not. They could hear your screams, but carried on anyway.

        What? Did you say something? Oh, I see; it was not you, but your company there. There be carrion riding your shoulder. Well, shoo black wings! Do you hear me? I said shoo. This is my friend, not your meal, so off with you. I swear, you think it was a royal feast the way those birds are bouncing from corpse to corpse, and those looters across this field are having such a find. I must admit it was quite a little darling of a battle, guns roaring, and then repeating, the sounds of men loading.

“Quick, quick, put the powder in, pack it, now, pack it, ready the shot, pack it, now, steady the thing, aim and fire.”

Then, the blast came. You could watch the gun launch itself back several yards as it lobbed that metal shot across the field of death. Then.., then the plume of dirt would arise in answer. Oh yes, that was fun; that was poetry in action. I can just see why the old Irish fighters were called warrior poets. There was a definite art to the dealing of death, and those men were pure artists. They would harry each other till one side was too whittled to give the call.

What? Oh, yes I guess you’re right. Your side did win the day, but they left you here upon the field of crimson, so tomorrow they have lost already. For, they are without your foolhardy bravado, bolting headlong into the fray, banging your snare in time with the march. They'll not have you to follow tomorrow, when they will need you the most. They didn't appreciate your sacrifices anyway.

They always jested you and ribbed you for being so young, being so small, being so restricted on smarts as to not understand the mechanics involved in firing some shot into, what one man called it.

 “One of dim fellars yonder.”

They never understood you, not like I do. They never saw the brilliance in letting others make the kill. You can just stand and watch, mayhap grab some glory after it is all said and done.

I know. I know you never wanted the glory. And, you just never liked the killing part of war. You just felt proud being apart of something bigger and better than yourself. Through the war, through the lines that followed you to their death, you felt important, and not just some dumb farm boy, but a real somebody.

You made them heroes, but their wagons rolled on, their horses cantered, leaving you alone with the road dust coating your throat, parching you. They left you with your tears and pain. This cook is serving your vengeance by the bowl. Death has chosen his agent well. I have always admired his choice in executioners. The ones I appreciate the most are the ones that sneak death to its recipient with a smile. Any man can kill with war. Only death is sleek enough to kill with words or deeds of an idiot.

Now, now, don't start tearing up on me. Oh. That tear has been there for how long? I'm not sure. I feel silly, thinking that was new. How long had you been hiding here among the tall grass before I found you. As long as I am here, you will never be alone.

Oh, well here, I found this over near the bushes. Do you not recognize it? It’s your drum. You must have dropped it when that shot rang out, you know, the one that marked you for its own. Red is a good color for you by the way. Oh look you have dropped it again. Now, now, stop dropping it. God, you have gotten your blood all over it. Fine then, leave it to rust in that puddle of blood, see if I care.

I try, and try to be your friend, and this is how you repay me. You're starting to act like you did when you were hanging with those other soldiers, acting like I did not exist. I thought, you know, since they left you, and I did not, we could become friends now. I marked you as being different than they, for you gave me a coat when I was standing out in the rain and everyone else had a tent under which to hide. I still wear your coat. See.

Those other guys never treated me anyway but badly. They did not treat you much better. They obviously didn't want your friendship; otherwise, they would not have left you, now would they? Some fair-weather friends you have there. But not me, I am here for you, through thick and thin. I’m your man. You don’t talk much. That's all okay. I can talk enough for both of us.

Say, what's that smell; is that you? That's nothing. I will not leave just because you start smelling like that beef I sold the cook. Oops! Did I say that? Ok, I admit, I sold the rotting meat to old scruffy face over there. I guess I can tell you. It's not like you are going to run and tell. Now, close your mouth, you are attracting flies. Remember, I will remember you, always. Now, close your eyes, it is time to dream a different dream. Fine, I will help you close your eyes too. Sleep. Sleep now my little darling. And remember, when all the trappings of man have passed away, when all that is now turns to dust and passes from memory, I will still remember you. Your path has come to an end, but your memory will live on with me as my road continues on. Sleep. Sleep now.

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