Our worst fighting was in Fallujah;
It was the hell-hole of Iraq.
But we’re transferring to Baghdad,
And soon we would be heading back.

We thought about our home town girls
With their gorgeous blonde curls that flounce,
Which bounced with every bump as this
Devastation’s road made us jounce.

‘Twas nice to think of tender things,
And know they’d be realities,
Since we’d be leaving this land of
Camel spiders and Iraqis.

We only had a few days left,
And those moments seemed like magic.
We never expected that we’d see
One of the moments most tragic.

We were stationed at the Green Zone,
And our minds were lulled by the peace.
We were half-hearted sentries. I
Told the private about my niece.

The war had hardened us greatly;
Violence was a sickening disease
That somehow made it possible
To think of others as mere fleas

That we must quash and then forget,
Since they would do the same to us.
We stood talking pleasantly while
Crumbling Baghdad lived in ruckus.

Suddenly, he raised his rifle,
And I was bewildered at first.
Of the days to let my guard slip,
With home looming, this was the worst.

I raised my weapon, and my glance
Looked for the same target he had.
But there were just the normal folks,
The women, and boys of Baghdad.

“What is it, Private?” I asked as
My apprehension grew bigger.
He didn’t respond. His finger
Hesitated on the trigger.

Then, with an oath he fired, and the
Crowds scattered at the resound.
There was a shrill, womanly scream;
The bullet its target had found.

I looked to see where pools of blood
Gushed warm from the neutralized’s head.
I saw the bombs strapped on, and if
Not for the private, I’d be dead.

No bombs exploded there that day,
But remorse took its curséd stead.
The private looked into those eyes
Now white. “The little boy is dead.”