War
There is no right. There is usually only the wrong. There is only the pungent, durable odors of hot metallic blood, burnt cordite, smeared shit, and sweaty bodies unbathed for weeks- because somebody had to hold the line. Fragile temperament struggling against inhospitable, improvised environments. Soft flesh against rigid alloys. Malleable bone against tracked vehicles and hovering drones. Just meat against metal. And metal always wins. Glory holds little meaning when a friend claws at the twitching stump where a healthy limb used to be. There is nothing glorious in hearing a 22 year old whimper and cry out for the loving embrace of his mama. Because he knows for certain that he’s about to die, while a chorus of words from friends ringing round him …
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