Whoever it was who said that war is heroic
Never stood in the midst of one.
Never felt the heat of a gun
Or heard the CRACK of bone
pierced by a hunk of lead.
There is no blazing glory or time-stopping feats of courage;
Only fiery death and heart-stopping terror.
And at the end of the battle when the
men have dug themselves deeper in their trenches than
they can ever hope to leave,
And the bodies of friends and brothers
lie strewn carelessly across the dirt,
twisted and still,
The warriors limp or drag themselves in the
hot, fiery day to a single spot of bitter shade,
Where they can watch their comrades
Shrivel away, never to laugh or cry or speak again.
And when finally those men,
Shadows of themselves at best,
Return home to families they no longer know,
They come to realize that the only reality
they still possess is that hot dry cemetery
of the ones they'll never see again.
So tell me...
Where is the heroism in that?
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