The charge begins at the shout,
Taking us to the battlefield.
The younger ones are eager,
While the older soldiers tremble.

The enemy camp is within sight,
As we point our guns towards it.
The tanks arrive as soon as us,
Giving us time to point and shoot.

The lieutenant barks his demands,
Reminding us to remain quiet.
It’s kind of hard to do that,
When the rookies are too rowdy.

A bomb to the left of us flies out,
As well as a bomb to the right.
We’re crippled by the noise,
So we don’t notice the screams.

Red is the color of the skies,
Painted by those who’ve fallen.
They fire their guns in vain,
Shooting the ones they cannot see.

The then tanks follow suit,
Taking charge of the assault.
It’s one thing to take over,
But it’s another to die trying.

I fire towards the camp,
Blinded by the sands.
The enemy fears our guns,
So they fire their missiles.

They have bad aim,
So we miss the frenzied shots.
What we don’t realize though,
Is the yell of their sacrifice.

A pistol rings out behind,
Causing a giant sand blast.
In the clearing of the dust,
A head lands in front of me.

Aimlessly I fire ahead,
Unnerved by the tragedy.
It’s inhuman to think this,
But it’s just too familiar.

They charge at us now,
Blazing their guns along.
I take down a few of them,
But the others aren’t as lucky.

A whistling noise is heard,
And we all start retreating.
The sky cavalry has arrived,
To save us from that hell.

Up in smoke and it went,
That campsite of Satan.
We head towards the trucks,
Dragging half bodies inside.

We may have won it all,
But glory is beyond reach.
The rookies only shout in pain,
Their wounds too much to bear.

I sit now in that tent,
Writing of these horrors.
The only phrase remembered,
Is “I want to go home.”