Green Revolver: Poems

Go to War

44 Go to War I walked into the motorpool office whistling, flipping an apple I swiped from the chow hall up and around. The move was on.Two mechanics had grabbed hold of an eight-foot-tall iron shelf, one of several we used to divide the large room into three offices. All the doors to the office were open, even the one I walked into and shut reflexively.Two other mechanics had begun painting the gray cinderblock wall a darker shade of gray. Captain Tilby, who ran the motorpool from his loft office, peered out of his doorway. Move those shelves back about three feet, he said between the hammering. I looked for the soldiers I worked with. All were gone. CaptainTilby saw me and came down from the steps. It’s about time you’ve showed up.We need you to move your truck, he said. Where to? Where’s my key?Where is everyone I know? I asked. I know you’d like to know, but we haven’t got any time for that,Tilby said. Well,I need the key to the truck if I have to move 45 it like you want me to,sir, I said. That’s an outstanding point,Rogers.I’ll see to it that you get it in my last will and testament. And by God,you’ll get a medal for this,you’ll see. His mind seemed clouded with dozens of logistical operations, getting the tracks and blades dispatched, moving the mechanics into the motorpool bays, requisitioning extra engines, drives, tires, canvases and gasoline. He began formulating without finishing his sentences, but somewhere in between I understand that he wanted me below, to wait out the movement, face the changes, lone soldier that I was in a bay full of replacements. I looked at them. Rubber faces and shaved heads. Straight out of basic and into the office. This is going to be a new century of death among all of us, I toasted, having pulled out my canteen from one of the wall lockers. Pau andTamalden looked down from their ladders and winked. ...