Nancy L. Meek
FIFTEEN METERS TO HEROISM, AND COUNTING
The odor of cordite still stinging the air,
Troopers on the ground, hunkered here and there,
Hot, sweating… expecting the small arms fire,
Mentally preparing for all hell to transpire.
The tracer round!
Hearts pounding as, suddenly, one rose,
A triggered frag grenade stuck to his clothes,
As he broke into a run, frantically tearing at his vest,
Yelling, “Grenade!” as it bounced against his chest.
©Copyright November 21, 2004 by Nancy L. Meek