Battle

War is bad.
Killing,
The bodies lying lifeless,
Shooting,
The shots whizzing past hitting man after man,
Exploding,
The shells,
Men hit and bodies flying,
One more widow.
War is like an automatic death sentence.
The smells,
Of rotting flesh.
The sights,
Of a friend hit.
Hearing,
The screams you knew from playing.
The feeling,
Of a bullet hitting you,
Ripping through you,
Killing you.
The enemy running, running, running,
At you,
For you,
Intent to kill you.
Running off the crafts,
Oh shoot, is all they can think.
Heavy gear pulling you down.
Each step harder than the last.
The sand mushing in around their feet.
You can see the flash of the MG.
The boots on their feet wet and water logged.
The gun slowly,
Inches up,
Slowly.
Your trembling hands,
Holding it tight.
You grab the cold trigger,
Pull it,
Bang, Bang, Bang,
A barrage of you own bullets,
A wall of your own lead,
comes flying out.
The kick,
So familiar,
Yet so new.
Men dropping,
Bodies lying,
Screams and shots,
Ring out.
The freaked-out look on mens faces.
War is bad.