Women and Children First
The leadership promised us an enemy to hurt. None would purchase a uniform otherwise. We were shown grainy photos of men advancing upon our lush hills with determined grimaces. Nameless figurines with no history or family raised a flag whose coloration was not our own. Oh captain, put a gun of significant caliber in my hand. Let me hide a combat knife in the small of my back before the ink of my registration papers dry. I swear to hate their head bands. Their supposed chants of freedom are counted as curses. The issued rifles slung about our shoulders were so enormous that the joke was they wore us. The command was to get low and shoot first. Tank rumble made our words incomprehensible, so we spoke with our fingers and eyes. Jet fleets screamed above to give us cover. And yes, upon a signal which can not be disclosed, the battalion was transformed into track stars. Rushing the encampment seemed more instinctual than laying on our bellies. So many rounds fired. So many cannons exploding with fire and smoke. Megaton bombs were the cause of our deeply lodged earplugs. Buildings fell as if connected to the bodies we riddled with our munitions. The true test was the aftermath. Captain allowed us to survey our handiwork. This was not standard practice, so most withheld their eagerness as if trying to ace a pop quiz. Protocol be damned, I lept upon every square footage of ruin. I wanted to rip their head bands in pieces, to set ablaze any opposition flag. Perhaps I would relieve myself upon an enemy corps. Excited to see the first article of clothing, I yanked it up and held a blouse to the sun. Hold on, a blouse? Slow stepping through the rubble, my foot made contact with some remnant patch of the enemy forces. I flipped it for the wishful discovery of an insignia, but only saw a velcro attachment. How long does one need to inspect a diaper? Enemy binders were collected for investigation. My men slowly bagged what they knew to be coloring books. Improvised plastic explosives? Who among us had courage to second guess central command? A half melted bottle dripping with baby formula seemed to be something of an inkblot test. War has spun our senses, and we imagined things that were not real. My first find was a flag, and not a blouse. Then a still small voice emerged from within me. It was the one that developed in church. It confronted me with a haunting question that I have buried to this very day; What kind of flag needs a waist size?
