In the ochre dawn
The last remnant
Of virginal excitement
At first contact
Is gone.
In place of wonder
At multicoloured beauties
Of machinegun and cannon tracers
Tumbling across the night sky;
In place of
the first dizzying realization
Of mortal danger upon closing with the enemy;
The pleasure of firing back;
The desperate tossing of grenades;
The chilling necessity of
Fixing bayonets and hefting
Viciously sharpened entrenching tools;
The final determination to even crash
Body against body in the darkness…
Now there are only crouched lines
Of unslept, soiled, sweated
Olive drab male forms
Stuffed with jumbled nerve cables;
Their Tympanic membranes still vibrating
To recent explosions
Their eyelids involuntarily blinking
To retina imprinted flashes
Their hearts recoiling at numerous
Huge emotions
Satiated soldiers;
Jaded soldiers facing the prospect
of another all night battle.