Friday, May 4, 2012

Pushing Pimples by Martin Lochner

He was dying, fading away and not even fighting it. Looking at me in disbelief and tears rolling of his cheeks he said “You pulled me in front and they shot me”
03 months earlier:
The humidity was like a film of glue between skin and khaki and any attempt to clean up only made it worse in the West African jungles. The clean odour of skin invited mosquitoes and parasites to suck on your blood.
Our losses were grave with our section reduced with another three men. Two got missing and one was dragged away by a tiger. The real enemy still remained elusive and discreetly picked off our men with expert sniper shot in no man’s land.
 A two week assignment became a three months struggle to extract an important family that got stuck in the kill zone where republican and rebel troops were butchering each other. The price in body bags was not really worth it anymore but we were obligated by a contract of service
 We returned back to base for replenishments and fresh reinforcements were awaiting us. It was kids standing with MP3 players and IPods, acting cool while staring at us as we passed them by. Slipknot was screaming in their ears and their shiny eyes were looking for experience and   bloody adventures. 
One kid was assigned to my group that covered reconnaissance. On the morning just prior to heading out the boy furiously scrubbed his face with Clearasil and combed and gelled his spiky hair.
He was a real handsome guy and it was funny to find him here and not between adolescent girls on prom night or the football field scoring points for his team.

2 – Fatality

Fucking Marine! ...I am a fucking Marine he was chanting and I told him to shut his trap as we entered the contact area. The Kiddo started turning pale as he smelled burning flesh of livestock and humans, he was sweating profusely as he saw dismembered men and disfigured human limbs strewn around after a mortar attack on the village during the night.  

Death was no X-box simulation game and the fun ravaging lyrics of his sadist artists were vicious. The real scenes sickened and crazed him in the long grass. He lost it screaming and urinating in his pants. Blowing our cover, I knew that contact with the enemy were now inevitable, I smacked him and said
“restrain yourself or die today child “

The enemy came in floods and what a macabre scene, they were dressed in woman’s clothing and their faces were concealed in primitive death masks. The Machine gunner cleaned five belts of ammunition and maybe killed a score of an hundred cannibal soldiers but the adversary total were only increasing. I prepared myself for death and instructed bayonets to be fixed for a fight to the death.  

They Shot cousin brother John through the skull, Staff sergeant Willis through the mouth and slowly our totals reduced in bloody waste. The boy was still screaming without end and we were starting to lose the left flank when I pulled the boy in front of me to take a hail of bullets intended for me.        

I was sole survivor concealing myself under his dead body. It was a close call when one of the rebels heard something close to us and picked up the kids IPOD that were still playing that raging music I heard at base.

The rebels in their satanic appearance danced to Slipknot, firing their AK 47 guns and celebrating their victory. They were in sync with this devil music and the dead American kid lying in his blood seemed peculiar to it.    

“Does your mother know you are here” I said to the kid as I was preparing his body to be moved 

3 – Mercenary conscience
Feeling a vague undefined guilt I buried my old veteran comrades and decided to only take the youngish body with me during the night.
Putting him on the mortuary’s stainless plate I noticed for the first time that a pimple was pushing through his tender skin and that the Clearasil was not so great in the tropics.
Memorial Day    
father leaves home early
not returning

mother fears the worst
father talking the previous evening of death
stroking the border scars on his body

crying “why did we die in the war!”

mother sends me to the military graveyard
walking the numerous rows of white crosses
revealing the loss of 17 years old boys

finding him asleep on an adolescent grave
 I wake him, tell him to come home.


I was a mercenary soldier out of choice. A psychological theatre of war was already occurring inside me since the day of my birth and the horror of an unhappy childhood. I was not merely shooting down real man during engagements but also my demons. Protect your children’s consciousness at home and never send them to fight wars. The shattering and scaring of their consciousness is permanent.

   The survivors

     The dead fortunate in their forgetfulness!
     the living cursed with the blemish of memory!

     their souls trapped in barbwire dream catchers
     forever reading damned oracles of fear

     Trying to dismantle
     they tear and cut themselves
     in endless strands of despair

No comments:

Post a Comment