#longjohnpoems
When the thunder stops,
it doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like someone
turned the world down too quickly,
leaving your ears ringing
and your thoughts louder
than you’d like them to be.
The gun sits quiet,
steam rising from the barrel
like it’s exhaling after a long argument.
The lads move slower now,
not tired exactly —
just coming down
from that place your mind goes
when everything depends
on getting it right.
You check the kit,
check the lads,
check the gun —
not because you’re told to,
but because it’s habit,
and habit is what keeps you alive.
There’s a strange peace
in the moments after firing.
Not calm —
calm is too soft a word.
More like a truce
between you and the world,
a brief pause
before someone decides
to start the noise again.
You feel the weight of it then —
the responsibility,
the trust,
the knowledge that your work
reached further than your eyes could see.
Somewhere out there,
men moved because you fired,
men lived because you were accurate,
and the ground shook
because you made it so.
No one talks much.
There’s nothing to say.
A nod here,
a half smile there,
the kind of quiet
that only comes from lads
who’ve shared something
bigger than themselves.
After the thunder,
you don’t feel like a hero.
You feel like a gunner —
a man who did his job,
stood his ground,
and earned the right
to breathe a little easier
until the next call comes.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 9:48 AM UTC
There’s nothing elegant about flying a gun.
It’s not some parade trick
or a bit of fancy soldiering
for the cameras.
It’s noise, rotor wash,
and the kind of organised chaos
that only works
because every man involved
knows exactly what he’s doing.
The Marines would be forming up,
faces blacked,
bergen straps tight,
ready to drop into whatever trouble
the world had lined up for them.
And there we were —
Maiwand Battery —
getting the gun ready
to follow them in.
Straps checked,
pins secured,
charge bags sealed tight
because if anything must stay dry
in this world,
it’s them.
Six charges,
six distances,
six ways to reach out
and remind the enemy
they’re not alone.
The helicopter would thunder in,
kicking up half the landscape,
and you’d feel the adrenaline
before the wind even hit you.
Hands steady,
eyes sharp,
every movement rehearsed
a hundred times
because mistakes in the air
don’t get second chances.
Then the lift —
the gun rising like it’s reluctant,
swinging under the bird
as if it’s thinking about misbehaving.
You guide it,
steady it,
talk to it under your breath
like it’s a stubborn mule
you’ve known for years.
And just like that,
she’s airborne —
your gun,
your lifeline,
your responsibility —
hanging beneath a helicopter
on her way to a fight
you haven’t even seen yet.
You follow after,
boots on the deck,
heart thumping,
knowing that when you land
and the Marines push forward,
they’ll be counting on you
to bring the thunder
exactly where it’s needed.
Airborne guns aren’t about glory.
They’re about trust —
theirs in you,
yours in the gun,
and all of you
in the chains holding it aloft.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 9:36 AM UTC