Gassed
All exhausted, legs weak coughing from the exhaustion of war,
Longing for the safety of the trenches.
We trudge back from the lines, each step hurting, shivering from cold,
Backs to the trenches.
The men are tired, trudge through the sludge,
Half asleep. Feet are sore, cut and blistered.
They don’t hear the gas shells falling.
“Gas! Masks on now!” I scream.
There is a scramble for masks, men hurriedly putting them on,
Tiredness forgotten
As the gas descends, everyone has their masks on except for one.
He is staggering around, crying.
The clouds are thick now; we stumble round, blind, waiting for it to clear.
The dying man comes flailing towards me. He coughs, water gargles in his throat.
We walk behind the cart, our comrade inside, spluttering, choking to death, mucus and water filling his lungs.
If it was your friend dying in such a way, would you still believe the liars that say it is glorious to die for your country?
Message Posted By: By Daniel Brooks
Date Posted: 12-12-2005
