with sticks on their back they charge into battle.
the world screaming behind them.

ringing of white noise.

my palms as myself before me and every face looking back already looks dead.

we had no stake in the world. chips of wood broken away to make a fire.

Pavlovian trained, fetching their food, dying before they could eat.

what a retched service they had done.

no option for them or us to turn away.

October 6/ 1941