He carried a strobe light and the responsibility for the lives of his men,
He carried the lower sling swivel,
The upper sling swivel, the safety-catch
And the emotional baggage of a man who might die

He carried the bolt, the breech
The cocking piece, the point of balance
The sky, the land itself
And ghosts,
The common secret of cowardice barely restrained
Reputations and shameful memories

War is God

He carried, drunk with fatigue,
An ecstasy of fumbling
The wounded or the weak
The pace behind the wagon we flung him in
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
And a silent awe for the terrible power of the things he carried

The greeting of heroes was over
He had been sickeningly frightened
He felt the need to talk but no one wanted to hear
He lost everything
“I don't love anybody”
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside.

War is God.