War is an exercise in patience and masochism.
Repetition lasting eons that age a man
With scars of body and of doubt,
Much as the ground itself trembles
Long before the elephant itself draws near.
War comes as fleeting views of mud and gray charging past,
The pachyderm leaves a jumbled mess in its wake.
In the end there are only memories:
The luminant flash of flame
Blinding in the darkness,
The brisant shock of an explosion
Rolling as a mighty gust of wind,
The impossibly loud roar of a field gun in action
Causing the never-ending ringing in one’s ears,
The wafting billows of grey-white smoke
And crisscrossed contrails of rockets streaming through the sky,
The smell of cordite on the wind,
Followed by the acridity of burning diesel and human flesh,
The burning sting of sand and pebbles
Driven along with the glowing slag in the blast wave,
The knot in your stomach as tracers reach out for you,
Or the chilling sweat on the nape of your neck
As bullets bend in flight and pass you by,
The oppressive weight of helmet and armor
Not nearly as heavy as the drawing of each breath.
Every soldier fights against the fear in their guts,
Leaning on the bonds of comradery and training
To drive themselves and others to do the impossible.
War is that place were every thought and action is simple and basic,
Because thinking and acting are so very hard to do.
