From rising ground behind their entrenched positions,
We smelt aromatic lamb in their lavish kitchens.
A saffron moon on this cold, clear, star-filled night
Bathed the enemy camp in a sumptuous light.
Purposefully resting our buried bones,
Ominously primed with silent drones,
Like darkness, our patrols so carefully coached,
Lay dormant as their sloppy sentries approached,
But so hungry were they for their evening roast
That they hardly ever left their comfy post.
We could see them with a girl, making out,
Half out of uniform, drunk, larking about,
Displaying typical southern arrogance,
Swaggering about with careless confidence;
Engrossed in joy: libidinous, unshakable.
Their rapt euphoria was unmistakable.
For so long, of necessity austerely bound
We were totally transfixed, completely spellbound.
Compared to the rigid discipline of our directive
We found their happiness intoxicating, addictive.
No hint of fear, expecting every wish fulfilled,
Oblivious that the next day they might be killed.
Like ordering chips at the Waldorf Astoria,
There is nothing prosaic about euphoria.
Yes, they outnumbered us nearly three to one.
Yes, their equipment was better. They had more guns.
But such rampant hedonism, something was wrong.
They had too much freedom and for far, far too long.
Suddenly I realised exactly how we’d win.
My inspiration: just the state that they were in.
Already I’d visualised a plan upon the map:
Their useless leaders could be drawn into a trap!
M R McBride