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Standing in a field like any other;
Similar to the ones you ran through as a child,
Care-free giggles, laughter and screams of glee, permeating all around;
So delightfully excited to be among your peers, playing at war, tag or what-not;
Punctuated by a stern reproach to ‘get back inside’!
Triggering an involuntary squirm echoing out into the distance before fading away;
A distant whistle precipitates an explosion, like lightning shattering a moment of reverie;
The child is a child no longer but a soldier with bayonet-fixed-rifle in hand;
He stands on a field less green than muddy, a drenched swamp that’s more bog than anything alike;
His karkey greens caked in wet, cold, mud;
Reflecting on memories when he played war as a child,
The adult version of the game (he grimly observed, taking shape around him) is more stark, morbid and visceral than could ever be realised;
A charge will soon be called by bugle horn,
And, he will run through this muddy marsh with bayonet thrust out;
Artillery shells, explosions and gunfire will ring out;
Shrapnel will take turns to scar, maim and shred you and the lads around you into mangled messes;
All of this you must confront head-on;
And stop only to cut through obstructing barbed-wire before continuing the onward charge,
Y’see: your own side will shoot you dead on sight for desertion,
Ahead of you lies the only bloody salvation available;
You have no choice but to move on;
Not all your friends will make it whole or at all,
Including you, if not for the grace of God;
So, make your peace with your maker for you will not get another chance,
The games you play are games no longer;
And memories of happier times-
Made so long ago, you can be forgiven for feeling you almost imagined them-
Are all you have.