War of the World
The mud slides beneath us as we trudge back, gasping, coughing.
Dried blood disfigures our faces. Blood of fellow fighters, who died for their country.
Not even our own.
On we march, leaving the echoing screams and gunfire behind us.
Many of us scarred, for life.
Legs of lead, hearts of helplessness. We all carry on. All of us weary and exhausted.
Not able to think of tomorrow. Not able to think of today.
Too drained to run and dodge the gunfire and explosions.
Suddenly it becomes harder to breath, I scream to the others.
They can hear it now too. Gas bombs.
We fumble, searching blindly for our boxes. Desperate to get our masks on.
Then a cry of despair. One man drops. Just a lad. Not old enough to die.
He shakes and writhes. It’s got to his lungs.
There’s nothing we can do, but we can try.
Heavy, dense fog surrounds us. I turn to look for my comrades.
Green envelopes everything. I lash about. Desperate to find them.
I cry out to them but no-one replies.
Gradually, a figure emerges through the deadly green.
Tears overcome me as I see my comrade without a mask, clutching his heart.
He looks at my as if asking “Please, help me”. He struggles to capture enough air.
For a moment I think he’ll actually speak. But only a gargle could be heard.
The image of him reaching for me will never be erased from my memory.
I am outraged. It’s barbaric.
You can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to see a friend thrashing
and yelling when you know he’s going to die. Imagine knowing that you can
do nothing to save someone when they fill you with love and compassion.
Try and hear the wagon crashing and racing across the uneven ground.
Try and see the blood and mucus that forces its way up a mans throat
and finally kills him.
The people and newspapers tell you how brave we are and how we die proud.
We don’t. We aren’t. We cry and weep, longing for home. So you tell me that
after reading this, is fighting a war, still such an honourable affair?
Are we proud? No, we’re just boys at heart. If you still think it’s something
to be proud of then you go through it. You go through the fear and terror that is war.
Scarred for life. Desperate for safety and shelter.
You stand there judging, but not knowing.
Message Posted By: By Eve Rawling
Date Posted: 12-12-2005
