Soldiers

I could have you court-martialed for this!

the guy bellows, spit flying in my face.

I had just pointed my gun at a mate. As a joke.

The guy grabbed my collar and marched me off. 

The gun wasn’t loaded, obviously.

And the guy twisting my arm up my back was a Sixth Former.

The whole thing was a fake.

We weren’t real soldiers and this wasn’t a war.

I didn’t even want to do Cadets. My dad made me.

Said it would be good for my character.

I found my old boots the other day –

the ones that took weeks to wear in,

that gave my feet blisters

as we yomped through the forest.

They were stuffed in a bag at the back of the wardrobe,

along with dusty school reports

and bits of crumpled artwork.

I wondered what the Sixth Former was doing now.

Wife, kids and a decent job. Probably. 

I put the boots on and clomped to the tiny garden. 

My feet felt heavy, the grass buckling beneath.

The war came, you might say, and me? The first to run.

I’ve got the boots but no longer the gun.

Joshua Seigal