gunfire prys my eyelids open
I pull on my ragged shirt and stumble outside
greeted with ***** faces and subtle groggy grunts

in the hazy morning sun
we search for the dead
twelve dead. six I talked to just yesterday
one I knew from grade school
you never quite forget
dragging your childhood friend out in a tan body bag

I pushed my worn medic patch down my arm
in the medical tent, a few men lay with blood-soaked wraps
shallow breathing interrupted only with dry coughs
most faded blue hospital beds lay empty
as not enough men survived
for then to have any use

shallow graves
were dug for two of the three men
dusty tears pushed behind as we lay down
the lifeless, bodies.
nothing  but rocks to mark were the rest

the horrors of war should never be confessed
a riveting story that should only be of fiction