The Charge.

I want to go home but don't want to,
The guy next to me has my back,
The trenches smell earthy and cordite,
From all the explosions and flack.

Hot days bring a new kind of stench,
Rotting bodies are fly blown and rank,
Some who had charged into gunfire,
A group all charred up from a tank.

If the tanks and the gunfire don't get you,
The mortars rain down from above,
The barbed wire can catch on your clothing,
There is no sign of peace from a dove.

The man with the whistle returns,
A sure sign a hint of a charge,
How will the bullets rip through me,
How far is the hospital barge.

I dont want to do this but have to,
My country needs a hero right now,
And although I know its pure carnage,
Only a coward would throw in the towel.

The countdown to the charge is apon us,
Bayonets fixed if we make it that far,
Some will try to run in a zig zag,
But a machine gun has a mighty big Arc.

Looking down I see mud tinged with red,
A mix of blood and water all around,
The yell from the distant commander,
As the whistle pitched high with the sound.