Ukraine Dispatch ~ The Other Side of the Door ~ Reflection upon The War in Ukraine in October 2023 in Light of the War in Israel (further revised edition)

Introduction

It is approaching the midnight hour on Wednesday 11 October 2023. Rightly, the world’s attention is focussed upon the War in Israel.

I have spent much time in Israel. I find it best to keep my counsel. I understand the horror from both sides of the door.

My friends in Israel would not expect me to take my eye off the ball, that is to say, to ignore the War in Ukraine.

This piece was written on the moment’s spur in May and it relates to a situation on the battlefield in Ukraine. It also answers a Ukrainian soldier’s question about the many Russian fatalities are not necessarily being properly, efficently and compassionately reported by the Russian Government to the families of fallen Russian soldiers, airmen, sailors.

To deal with this, Ukraine opened up back channels in the earliest days of the war.

War is vile.

I have, therefore, brought the piece up to the frontline again. It is now October 2023.

I am greatly heartened by this evening’s news that even President Zelenskyy of Ukraine has reached out to Israel.

As I say, War is vile, and war is fought in theatres. And one theatre will, to make use of this analogy, suddenly occupy centre stage.

To the People of Ukraine, you are most certainly not forgotten. You, too, are on centre stage. And it for this reason that this war poem has been published as a Ukraine Dispatch. Occasionally, war poetry can communicate in ways that conventional journalism cannot.

Kenneth Webb
Liverpool

Ukraine Dispatch ~ The Other Side of the Door ~ Reflection upon The War in Ukraine in October 2023 ~ in Light of the War in Israel (further revised edition)

I

It is a cold and icy wind that blows across life's dying embers.

But there lies Peace this day.

The days distraught at last have passed.

All around me move,

I will rest me a while longer.

They will fetch me soon enough.

Never a dull moment, hey!

A streak across the sky.

Then another... and another still.

A heavenly portent?

Nay.

Kyiv will have it hard tonight.

Worry not. Our defences are sure.

We have certainty of purpose.

We will not be defeated.

II

We had no quarrel. And still not.

Yet when our lands are invaded,

 our families raped and murdered,

when people are sniped in the street,

when men are tattoo-naked stripped,

when the youth,

the Cream of our Nation

are murdered and worse still,

there are things that even I cannot repeat,

I have locked them in behind the doors of my mind.

Our language is outlawed

Our children - thousands deported...

III

I will rest here a while longer.

The platoon works well.

Superb, in fact.

I trained them well.

Survival. Kill or be killed.

That is what a sour man's mind

in the Kremlin has descended us all headlong into.

I wonder.

I wonder if he will take the route of

of Stalin

that other monstrous tyrant,

the Archtitect of the Holodomyr infamy?

And that personification of an even greater evil

in the Berlin Bunker?

We can only hope.

IV

What? Pray?!

No. I’m not into praying these days,

at least not in the way you mean.

Ask me to pray to a god? Get real!

My eyes have seen and witnessed events beyond humanity.

You'll be asking me next to believe the fairy tales,

Harry Potter, Star Wars, Game of Thrones.

Middle Earth, Heaven, Hell!

Hell? Sure. It's damned well right here

where it’s always been.

My German friends have the perfect phrase...

die Holle auf Erden ~ hell on earth!

Sure - the Cosmos is perfect,

ordered and not a chance occurrence.

V

Hang on...

They come for me now. So I'll rest my eyes a moment.

Thanks for your company.

No, don’t let go my hand just yet.

You've really warmed me.

Have no fear. My body is cold but my soul is warm, ever-glowing.

Drifting... Drifting... Drifting

Hey, Sarge, here's Johann, damn it.

Nah! Gone. A sniper for sure.

Clean through his helmet, his temple.

No. Back's a mess. I'll cover him.

Okay, We'll collect him later.

God! Fuck this world. He's 19.

Training to be a Doctor. He's joined his dad and brother now.

Married last month.

Fuck! How do I tell his wife?

Corporal? Corporal! Dima. Діма!!

Did you hear me? Come on!

Snap out of it.

Sorry Sarge. I'm trying to get my

head round all of this.


I mean who will tell their mothers?

All these Zeds!

Don't worry.

They were once upon a time brothers-in-arms, in life.

We shared our languages.

We use the back channels, Дім, to get the information

to Russian families via social media.

Their People cannot rely upon their government.

They are fighting a lost cause.

It is a cold and icy wind that blows across life's dying embers.

The corporal moved on, detached, in his own world,

yet quietly and ruthlessly efficient.

Johann, still in the sitting position.

The sergeant gently cleared Johann's breast pocket,

placing the photograph with reverence in the satchel,

sealing the envelope and marking its code to shroud.

Sleep well Johann.

Sleep well my boy.

You are the finest.

VI

Sarge. Got a mo?

Sure, lad. What’s on your mind Dima?

Squatting, Dima warmed his hands on the small stove,

icy fingers from outside the dugout clawing at his back.

Here. Get this in you. What is it?

Earlier. About praying. I let rip. Sorry.

The understanding slow, slow nod in reply.

Listen, I knew exactly what you meant.

We see things here that upend Scripture.

We can’t make head nor tail.

Every soldier confronts this all the way down

through history. Keep your faith to yourself.

There are times for public displays.

I’ve found real comfort sometimes in being

in a church, when we’re committing those Fallen.

But I take my cue from something He said

“Go to that Most Secret Place.”

Yeah?

But where is it?

Anywhere you like… any place known only

to you and to G-D.

I’ve a friend over in the UK.

Ex air force.

For him, there’s a piece of woodland in a painting.

He always senses inner peace

when he recalls it.

It’s that place where he can really

have a set to if he has to.

And He Dima, you know Who I mean,

never walks away.

Dima, thought deeply,

glad for the tea

laced with rum

warming him.

Dima?

Sarge?

You know who told my friend that?

Go on…

Johann, when he was in Liverpool.

VII

The Sergeant stood up.

God, I’m feeling my age! (giggling)

Picking up his Automatic,

tightening the helmet chin strap.

I’m going to check the other dugouts.

Take your time Dima.

Enjoy the peace in here.

See you in fifteen, okay?

A slow silent nod.

Silent communication

through the gloved

hand - two taps - on his shoulder

seemed to warm him

from deep within.

VIII

That Most Secret Place.

He stumbled across it in the long avenue

of his mind.

The place was vivid, gentle, serene, fun,

and yet unknown to anyone,

And in the Avenue’s gentle light

Dima reconnected.

Neither of them spoke verbally,

It seemed more akin to mind-reading

but a stillness and prayerfulness

that no language could adequately describe.

A sudden whoomf-whoomf.

Two more.

Dima grabbed his Automatic,

grabbed his hemet

and rushed out into the trench.

Sarge looked at him,

beckoning him, two vigourous down-hands

to lie flat.

It’s okay Dima. Lie low.

We’ve already pinned the coordinates

and fed them back.

As if in reply, in an instant,

the threat was removed,

a single drone strike.

Wednesday 11 October 2023
All Rights Reserved


LIVERPOOL

© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb


Parts I-V Written on the moment's spur on Saturday 27 May 2023

Parts VI-VIII penned Thursday 3 August 2023

A Thousand Dimensions ~ That Most Secret Place I

This link will also then lead to That Most Secret Place II should a reader wish.