Blood, water, and mud.
That’s all there is here in this quagmire called war.
Cannons roll on as an endless drum beat, dictating the tempo of the world.
Never quiet.
Never still
Never without the hint of fear.
For even in what can be called the silence of night
Where but for a moment lone birds calls may be heard
When the dusts may finally fall.
Whistle screams still shatter the chilled fall air.
Leading on a flurry of furious screams. 
But it is all for naught.
Rank upon rank charge,
And they are cut down to a man.
Then it is their turn to do the same, and the meat grinder keeps its pace,
Until every last one of us collapses to our knees covered in blood water and mud.