The shells and mortar plink and blast around him.
Razor wire stretches as far as the eye can see.
Pitfalls, muddied dirt, and God only knows what else
is all within the path that is entrenched before him.

He took up his rifle a long time ago;
pledging to do what he had to,
pledging to defend what he ought.

He took many laborious steps alone.
He crawled beneath the wires.
He dodged the mortar shots,
though the debris was a much harder hazard to avoid.
He even fell into some pitfalls,
but managed to pull himself out of that muddied dirt.

He felt alone on the battlefield.
And from where he was positioned,
bullets rained down upon him.
He sought safety behind a wall of the very same
muddied dirt that had been his hazard.

And just when he felt he could go no further,
a hand reached in front of him, offering to pull him to
a safer place.
It was a hand that all at once seemed familiar and foreign,
known and unknown.

And the man to whom the hand belonged simply smiled at the soldier,
and said, "We're moving on."