The Why of It All

I waited for the order but the order never came. I stood by and let good men die, believing the words would be sent to me, called out, wired, written. I waited for those words as cries rang out, cries of help and please and why. I stood with my back to them, those men, I stood with the use of my unbroken legs. I stood because I could, kept my back to them because it was the only way to go on breathing. I took the breaths they could not take, I stared down the sun they never knew, I never slept.  And all the while was help, please, why.

I've asked myself the very same, the why of it all. I did not ask it long, and I received no answers, but it seemed to me that asking was the important part. Because I waited, I was told, I listened for the order. And I've thought, perhaps, that maybe it did come. Came from behind those bodies, straining through an air filled with so much waste and sorrow. And I laughed, I admit, brief though it was, that their cries drowned out the very help that they were crying for.