Eyes blinded by smoke, faces crispened by flames, ears deafened by the chatter of small-arms fire and the boom-boom of artillery, we keep moving forward, undaunted, towards our target, which must be reached, at all costs.
A man goes down in front of us, face in the dust, gurgling uncontrollably. Ambulances screech past, sirens wailing, blue lights flashing, rushing more casualties to the medical station at the rear.
War is hell, they say. But this is war without the shooting. The man who went down gurgling, now rolls onto his back, face smeared with dust and beer, giggling uncontrollably. Until he realises it's his beer that's been spilt.
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