Wayne Michael DeHart  (May, 2025)

(Darkness. His back to the wall.
No windows, no way to see outside.
A set of wooden steps leading up to . . .
their only way in  . . .  and his only way out.)

As darkness settled, and the last vestige of light had gone,
the trained medic settled into place, never to be the same.
The blue-eyed soldier was to stand guard there until dawn,
and he hoped for neither fire nor fury before sunrise came.
Those first three hours passed quietly, no weapons drawn.
He flexed his arms, stretched his legs, and played the game.

His field phone came to life, squawking loudly, just after nine.
He bolted forward, muted the volume, and silenced the call.
Had the sound carried past the bulwark? He waited for a sign.
His chest tightened upon hearing sounds just behind the wall
that separated him from hostiles who dared to cross the line.
He assured himself it was nature’s noise, of no concern at all.

Like the poet Frost, he faced forever before welcoming sleep.
Flashing on warm kisses from a faraway girl, he relaxed again.
Seven weeks remained and his ruminations ran hot and deep
as he relived the misery of the dark, stark places he had been.
He was rudely snapped back to the present by a honking Jeep
grunting hello from the graveled road. Army Man, checking in.

Near midnight, his radio coughed and choked again, then died.
Not a good omen on this edgy night of a one-horse, open vote.
Rumors of risk and revenge had warned of a rough night’s ride.
Suddenly, a ringing shot in the distance echoed a warning note.
Blind to any outdoor movement from the position he occupied,
the short-timer snuffed the light as spasms thrashed his throat.

Twenty-four feet by eight feet of reinforced aluminum and steel
surrounded him, with similar attached space both left and right.
On one end was a crudely cut entryway lacking an effective seal
around a flimsy, ill-fitting wooden door that wouldn’t shut tight.
The hook lock reminded him of a bedroom door that wasn’t real,
found only in childhood dreams that once haunted him at night.

When he heard the sudden surge of gunfire, he reassessed his lair.
A jacked-up metal desk hugged the back wall, secured to the floor.
He backed his way onto a rickety crate that functioned as it’s chair,
stretching out, bracing his weapon, his eyes never leaving the door.
Intruders surging up those stairs would stop and pause right there,
reckless prey for racing rifle rounds raging raw, cold fire at full bore.

The day had reeked of angst and anger. Shit-deep in heated politics,
the air stunk as he silently damned war and hot, hellish days gone by.
He saved a few curses for the busted phone and things he couldn’t fix,
then leaned firmly into the wall and heard the muffled voices multiply.
Thus lay his burden and his curse; uncertainty, his mind playing tricks.
Best to fire at faceless footsteps? Or lurk too long, delay and  . . . die?

His guys knew his name and the tap code, but other friendlies would not.
Relentless raiders on this election night surely knew someone was inside.
If shadows push through the door in the blackness, does he take the shot?
His head pounded, his heart fluttered. Take them down? Or wait to decide?
For hours, the grueling game chewed his mind as he awaited an onslaught.
Decades later, he still watches doors in the night. Eyes wide. Sleep denied.

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Writer’s Closing Note:

This poem was awarded 2nd place nationally in the 2025 National Veterans Creative Arts Festival
competition. The annual Festival begins with local competitions at the 123 VA facilities that
participate. There are 117 categories in all, including twelve creative writing categories. The top three
entries in each category at the local level advance to the national judging each year. “Aftermath …” 
was entered in the “Rhyming Poetry – Military Experience” Category.

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