He woke up to a torrent of sounds:
Sirens, shouts, and the percussion of instruments.
The tent lit up with stinging rays of light,
Bursting, shining, flashing like miniature stars.
He knew this could only be one thing-
Enemy raid.

He had been trained for this kind of attack,
The kind that causes panic, disorientation,
And worst of all, death-
The death of comrades and friends.

With waves of light flooding into the room
like fire in a patch of dead trees-
He quickly donned his gear.
He started with the standard issue Kevlar vest, marked by battle scars.
It was his friend's, a reminder of what can happen on the battlefield.
His friend's body now a shield for his own.
Then came the boots, standard issue for a foot soldier,
Handy-downs from the fallen,
For the boots carried a history of running from death,
But also going towards it.
He strapped on the helmet, camouflaged to look like sand.
The helmet, only a precaution against lame shrapnel,
When it sees a fierce bullet approaching,
Its defenses fail, and its life gone.
The standard issue belt with all its tools came next.
Loaded with grenades, magazine shells, and his spare gun-
A M9 Pistol, standard issue,
Still innocent to Death's game.
The belt also carried his knife,
A razor sharp curved edge on one side
And a jagged point edge on the other.
The final piece, his M16A4 Assault Rifle.
He lifted it up, pulling the strap over his head,
And seating it upon his shoulders.
It was heavier than its numerical weight,
With each bullet inside its belly,
It held the power to take life,
Thanatos' job taken by a piece of steel.

With his gear mounted, he paced outside the tent.
Sounds screaming into his ears,
Explosions giving off deadly light,
His eyes reflecting the battlefield around him.