the Battle for Cain
the old diesel engine
rambled along
pistons squeaking
dust on metal grease
feeling each ditch
shocking the kidneys
but we do not mind
because we are going home
forward daft stares
slug silence
not speaking
humor or horror
they drove us out
of burning Caen
duck and dive spirits
left between the ruins
that afternoon a century
passed and it rained
creating bloody muddy mortar
of Tommies, Jerries
and that desert turf we
fought on
poem by Martin Lochner
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