The Face of War

The stories, bulged with laugh and boast, Repressed the dread of shadow’s ghost. The smell of bodies burnt like toast They likely will recall the most. There’s little glory in a war And how they dare to keep the score Of bodies where the bullets tore The loyalty they proudly wore. The smell of urine soaking through; The snot and spittle adding to The fear, and yet they always knew The killing’s what they’re trained to do. The enemy is now in sight; The trembling soldier knows his might. The finger must squeeze slow and tight; The haunting question – “Is it right”?