Horrific

War

Gunshots blast from every direction as the two men file into the opening in the forest. A break of trees leaves them in what's little more than a fifty yard wide patch of dirt.

More men and some women sweep in after them, all of them decorated with dark paints and armed with large guns. Their silent approach only lasts a few moments longer before gunfire fills the clearing, sending dirt and grass flying.

The men and women scatter, many of them breaking formation to rush to the trees. With such little warning, many are immediately struck down. The remaining soldiers battle their way to the tree line, facing nothing but the ghosts of forgotten deaths.

They see no enemy, yet their men continue to drop as the gunfire increases. Those who are not immediately killed where they stand fight for the trees. And those who aren't slaughtered as they try seek refuge make it, suffering little to massive injury along the way.

Cries of pain and surprise seem to come from every direction in the clearing. Some curse loudly while some do their best to bark out emergency orders. But as the gunfire continues to increase, so do the cries.

The two men that lead their warriors into battle manage to flee into the trees, turning only in time to watch the last of their men, the last of their friends, drop dead. Those that stand by them experience the same pain and loss.

But in a time like this, there's not much you can do. Some of the men watch in awe as others begin to fire randomly, hoping to hit a target they cannot see.

Their fire is returned heavily and more men begin to suffer injury. The tree line might be safer than the clearing, but when it comes to armor, pine needles will not help you. It provides no safety and many men are still dropping by the second.

"In the trees!" One of the two men shouts, fear and loss choking his voice. "Their in the tr...!" He says, only to fall back into the dead pine needles. The second man rushes to his side and watches as the man coughs, spitting out blood.

He feels like vomiting, his best friend just getting shot. But there's no time for things like that. Not in war.

He watches the light in his partners eyes dim and then die out entirely, replaced by a hazy gloss. Tears roll down his face, smearing the fresh mud and paint. But there's nothing he can do. He knows his friend is dead. Almost as worse, he knows he'll be the one to have to tell his wife and son. That is if he makes it out of here.

He turns and watches as men of opposing forces seem to leap out of the trees, guns in their hands and still firing. The remaining man watches as further conflict erupts. He watches as a man leaps from behind and tackles one of his men, only to begin hacking away at his body.

He watches as another of his troops gets kicked to the ground and shot repeatedly. He watches as his life falls apart. What seemed so solid only minutes before was now deteriorating before his eyes. And he watched it all. He watched until he couldn't anymore. And then he cried.

Yes, he fell back, curled up into a ball and cried. And yet still the gunfire continued and still his men died. And yes. The man cried. Because he knew there was nothing more he could do.

He knew this because sometimes war is an awful thing. A horrific thing. Except it is no story. War is a reality. Just as things such as sorrow, fear, and loss exist, so does war. Because war is real. And it is horrific.