Anon-Misc- the craft

"Regardless of who you love, where you come from, what you worship, you're still human and war is your craft"
-unkown


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I dream of war.
It probably doesn't seem too unusual.
After all, many people growing up dream of being a soldier.
They dream of being a hero.
They dream of being a badass.
They dream of camaraderie.
I don't dream of those things.
I dream of war in its true nature.
I dream of its true face.
I dream of its glories.
I dream of its horrors.
I dream of the Somme.
I see the scorched, twisted earth, stretching all around, gouged and wounded.
The rain is unending.
The rain creates small rivers and streams, and they run red with blood.
The blood pools at the bottom of the trench.
It soaks the wrappings on my feet.
It's so cold that I cannot even feel my feet anymore
I see the officer, his face gaunt and bony, aged a hundred years in the mere span of two.
How many men has he sent to their deaths?
How many has he watched crumple and collapse in no-man's land?
Still he persists, for it's his duty.
He puts the whistle to his lips, and we clutch our rifles, shivering.
OVER THE TOP!

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I dream of Khe Sanh.
I dream of the thick, choking jungle, that grabs my ankles and trips me up.
The jungle doesn't want to let me pass.
I am a foreigner, an invader.
It wants to seize my legs and sink me deep into the mud.
It hides my enemies.
I can feel them watching me, from the dark nooks and crannies.
A twig snaps, and the hair on my neck stands straight.
Eternities pass, and a life left behind flashes before my eyes.
The ambush is sprung.
I hear the sergeant scream.
CHARLIE IN THE TREES!

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I dream of Afghanistan.
The sun is hot, hotter than anything I've known before.
It speaks to me, threatens to scorch me, to burn me to ashes.
The sand and the mountains, offer no respite.
This is not Russia.
I am not welcome here.
The lead vehicle in the convoy, the BTR, is hit by a rocket.
I dismount, and run to it.
The men inside are still alive.
Screaming.
Burning.
I can smell their flesh burning.
They cry for their mothers before the flames snuff them out.
One way or another, this place will burn me, too.
I was sent here a man.
I will leave here as ashes.
ZA RODINU!

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I dream these terrible dreams.
I feel the pain.
I feel the terror.
I awaken.
I feel empty.
Why did I have to wake up?
I want to sleep again.
The only time I am alive is when I am asleep.
When I am dreaming.
It's all I want now.
More than anything.
To sleep - perchance, to dream.
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