Her Fired Hands

It started before dawn,

Into the village, looking and searching.

Shots fired randomly all morning,

here, there, by an unseen enemy,

to the unseen enemy.

Buildings searched, people questioned,

again, again, and again.

All morning long, into the afternoon.

Someone sees 4 to 5 men over there,

in that small group of buildings.

4 to 5 men with AK's.

Across that open ground, 200 meters away,

200 meters of open ground.

Put your game face on, again.

Set the trucks with the guns,

.50 cal and M240B,

ready to maneuver, already covering.

Dismounts.

We walk, staggered wedge,

up to the short road to the buildings.

No one seen.

Weapons ready, eyes searching, scanning, looking.

Thumb on selector switch, ready to do its role.

20 minutes have passed...

She fell into the fire,

helping her mother cook the bread, only weeks ago.

She was maybe seven,

unconditionally cute.

She had no fingers on her left hand,

burnt into wax plastered nubs.

Scars and disfigured skin

up to the smallest, most delicate elbow.

Her right hand, not as bad,

4 fingers and one thumb,

skin scarred, but still there.

She never stopped smiling

as we examined her hand, her arm,

messed up her crazy hair;

we shared a laugh.

This little girl, I've forgotten her name,

never her face,

never her hands.

What will happen to her?

You know what will happen.

You go home in less than 30 days,

to your comfort,

your convenience,

your health and your freedom.

You go to you future wife.

Have a daughter or son with her,

Take care of her,

Love her.

And never forget she who fell into the fire.                                                       printable