D.M.C

By Ann Butcher.

As I sit looking at your photo.

Tears are in my eyes as I see the tall man, standing so upright.

I am reading the orders of the day and realise how hard it must have been.

Hearing the commander give you the orders to send your men out, on a mission that you knew was fruitless and unneeded.

Sending them to their deaths, they went so willingly, eager.

The way you just got on your horse and rode off to save the man that half an hour earlier gave the order, then having to go back for the machine gun so the enemy didn't use it on your men.

Do men do that because they are brave?

Or is it because it is their duty, this weird self-sacrifice that makes them heroes?

Whatever it is there will always be men that have the guts to do the distasteful things.

To shoot their mates so they do not die a slow, painful death or be taken by the enemy for torture.

I hear all the men that have died.

I can see their faces, I feel all their pain, and there is nothing I can do.

But wait my turn.

Dead Men Crying.