Platoon

A Platoon on the Edge

In the hush of the third field‑green dawn,
the twenty‑four lads stand shoulder to shoulder,
their boots freshly scoured off old gravel,
ready for the gasp of the next command.

At the back, the sergeant’s voice,
crisp as clenched brass,
carries the weight of the mission: “Move, hold, engage.”

They march, a row of intent,
their rifles draped with olive‑drab tranquility,
a quiet file under a sky that claws the horizon.

The commandos share rations in staggered silences,
the savour of cracked biscuits and the scent of oil—
a daily remix of sustenance and duty.

The night comes, cold as a blizzard from the north,
and the platoon lies under a blanket of stars,
the whisper of the wind telling the same stories,
the same stories as the lads in the mess, laughing,
the ping of wireless chatter,
the heartbeat of the squad echoing “Advance.”

Once again the morning vaults over the hills,
band and rhythm loud enough to drown the whisper of fear;
The sergeant’s thought, “We are a unit, a living thread,
veneered by training, etched by the gravity of the world,”

and the platoon moves forward,
one heartbeat, one breath, one breath-fast scoop.

In that single line,
there’s bravery—a quiet unity,
the blue‑skied patch upon the collar,
and the promise of the iron: we remain.

They march on, across valleys swollen with sweat,
a beat kept by the rhythm of perseverance,
a song that never ends or changes.
A platoon—together, forever, on the edge.