Johnny, sling your rifle boy and shoulder your weapon well! March in pace with your brothers to the burning gates of hell. Shuffle your feet and hoist your pack, grenades on your chest and ammo in your sack. Still the devil laughs with his heart of black as he ushers you one by one. Single file you walk the final mile with sons fighting fathers, and fathers fighting sons. And which side won? What was the toll? A cost paid of broken bodies and scattered souls for those who dared, those who cared when cities were laid bare. And for those who later cried alone at the sight of burning homes. The smoke burning eyes, stinging tears to atone in the coming years. The fears buried deep turn to nightmare sleep about red running rivers and flames. Awarded metals and ribbons and cheers of fame over death, given, and taken in shame. Yet here we stand one and the same, day after day with a smile. Counting the miles we march, as the devil laughs in single file.