So here he was to die for his country.

Laid in a ditch of blood and dirt too scared to look too cold to run.

Afraid of being branded a coward of not following in his friends footsteps, mowed down by enemy fire.

Shot and bangs are replaced with cries of grown men wishing to be home and to see their mothers face’s on last time.

War is hell for those that live through it.

He sits and stairs at wall with each friend’s name on and cries and knows they live on as sprits’ of Warriors.