The Five Hundred Thousand

 

Those of you who read a lot, or were forced to do so in college, may recall a poem by the Victorian, Alfred Lord Tennyson called The Charge of the Light Brigade.  It features a repetitive phrase “the six hundred.” That phrase was all I could think of, as the latest toll of US deaths from COVID rolled in, early this week, and people kept referring to the five hundred thousand who died.

 

“Into the Jaws of Death

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the sIx hundred…

 

Honour the charge they made,

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!”

 

Well, we have nobility of our own to honor, even in this country with no titles. 

The Light Brigade is about bravery in the face of impossible odds, in the face of certain death, in the face of poor judgment and worse leadership. 

According to britannica.com, it is about the Battle of Balaklava in 1854, where a brigade of British soldiers bravely fought the Russians during the Crimean war, in what was considered a suicide mission. 

That bit of history may not be familiar to American ears.  But we relive it now in spirit.  We sustain the same tragic losses.  And we must fight on, until the battle is done.

I hope you will indulge me as I make use of this glorified imagery.  The five hundred thousand deserve at least this much, in their honor.  Thanks for coming by to read.

 

As we draw to the end

Of a year of this panic,

This active disaster,

This monster, this blight,

 

Let us hold hands together–

Although at a distance–

Lock arms and move forward

In lockstep.  Unite.

 

There’ll be time for our bickering,

Time, for our sniping,

For slapping, attacking

And trapping our foes,

 

What counts is our country,

The Five Hundred Thousand,

Who died, while we bickered,

And sank, while we rose.

 

To honor their memory,

We must make the effort.

We must put aside all our

Grievance and woes,

 

And stand at attention

And bravely join forces,

And charge, guns a-blazing,

The fiend, toe to toe.

 

Only then, will we vanquish

Invisible soldiers,

Who can’t hope to breach

Such impregnable rows.

 

We’ll depend on each other.

Less blood will be shed. 

 

And, defending the living,

We’ll honor the dead.

 

Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew

 

For more poems on the steep price of this pandemic, read Waste and Winter’s Toll.