A Call to Arms

by Michael H. Lester
 
His uniform festooned with ribbons, medals, awards
four small bronze stars on his epaulets
the ghost of General Armii Nikolai Nikolaiovich Prespelnikov
more bone than skin
wafts into the auditorium
of the Mariupol Donetsk Academic Regional Drama Theatre
up to the podium like a stiff breeze
from the remote Siberian tundra
 
His throat parched from the dry, acrid air
he puts his bony hands on either side of the lectern
pauses for effect before bellowing
in his sweet undulating baritone
the oath of allegiance to the recruits
occupying one-hundred, or so, seats
at the rear of the auditorium
 
Ahem! General Nikolai coughs
in a bid to gain the attention of the nervously rattling skeletons
whose murmurings cause a devilish din
throughout the cobwebbed expanse
of the once grand but now dilapidated and musty auditorium
which murmuring, melancholy and morose
echoes off the walls and ceiling and through the rubble
like the screeching of so many startled belfry bats
bursting comatose into the harsh light of day
 
a war hero
a martyr and a saint
General Nikolai
leads the legions of dead
in their battle for survival