“Graduating the Sergeants’ Academy”

by Brendan Dawson

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As newly promoted sergeants within the brigade Our commander pinned stripes on our uniforms and berets He said a few words about the things we had made Since we first entered The Sergeants’ Academy A round of applause faded to silence And a senior ranking sergeant walked up beside us And growled for all the new ones to meet him behind the barrack’s bays Now if you’ve never been in the military Then there's a system you’ll need to understand clearly About positions and ranks and who does the planning About bones and guts and who does the advancing Sergeants ensure focus and attention A balance of expression and discretion Although the commanders hold the official position And bear the authority to order a mission The sergeants bring order and discipline And ensure there is volition It’s a tradition that harkens back to the most ancient of armies Like when Roman sergeants hung short swords from their garments Not for the enemy but to keep their own soldiers performing With a tap of the blade about the back side for warning Though this senior sergeant didn’t have a sword He didn’t need one—or so we'd been forewarned He’d earned his stripes in battle bruised blistering Bandaged in scars and tattooed long before our history His eyes burnt like phosphorus and hands cracked like old saddle straps He spit piss between his teeth gapped from biting bullets out of ammo cans Then he spoke—from a confidence backed by vision “Y’all better pull your heads out your asses and listen Today is the day that everything changes. You are now a part of an honored occupation That believes in its people equal to the mission And creates success for the progress of the nation.There is no extra pay And there won't be any white horse parades Or oil painted pictures to hang Over the mantle of your mother's place. The things you do will never be displayed In books or memorial sayings But be assured there will be sweat and blood and pain There will be choices wanting to be made On whether to push or reconfigure to go in again That is what you’ve been charged with today It’s a responsibility without authority At the extremes of humanity That must be accepted readily Let anyone who won't take it seriously—walk away” His words echoed across the now empty lot And we knew not to respond Or to challenge the justification thereof The thought of walking away didn't even enter our minds’ calculations We all cut our eyes to the left and the right To see if there were any exhibiting hesitation Of this task, of this job, of this way of life from his proclamation Not a one of us stepped away that day Or spoke poorly of the path that laid Ahead of us for as long as our contract to serve We could have never of known what would have come next Or the plans that were already set To change the path as we knew it, was absurd That night we celebrated and sung And pledged our oaths into the early morning sun That's how we lived on September tenth, two thousand and one

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Brendan Dawson is an American-born poet and writer based in Italy. Brendan writes from his observations while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time serving in the military and the journey of becoming an expat.

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