Orders, what are you willing to do to follow them? Are you willing to pursue a man into unknown territory, to drop down and shoot at one word? Are you prepared to die, to give up your family, the love in your heart? Are you willing to walk away from your friends when they need you the most? Could you kill someone while they are begging for mercy.  To put a gun against a strangers head and pull the trigger? Without knowing who he is, without knowing the children he would never see grow, the wife he would never kiss again? Bang. These men are.
                                   
                                They are the men of war.

To ignore the commands of an officer is like suicide. The harsh yells of authority, the tough stern face, they are for a purpose. You do not ignore them. If you do you are punished, pushed to your limits as your throat releases the sick, its too much for your body yet they will carry on. They have no limits, no difference between right and wrong. You lay your life in the hands of a stranger, a man you hardly know. His grip throws you over the line, forcing you to face the bitter fight. His foot presses your fragile body into the thick cold mud. He says your final goodbye, yet he doesn’t shed a tear. You die in his watch, your body another number on his shoulders, your name pushed into the back of his mind. He will forget you, he has to, it is duty.

                                           For he is a man of war  

The guns are heavy in their weakened arms. Their eyes are grey, contrasting to the unnatural ghastly white of their sunken faces. They stand in a formal line, bodies bent, mind broken. None of them want to be the first to fall, to be the weakling of the pack. Everyone is aware that once you fall , you do not return, you are there for eternity, The collapsed are left to rust, to die in the lonely pits of hell. No-one runs to help, no-one calls a medic. They do the opposite. They stand and walk in a different direction, the scream torturing their heads. They are ordered to walk away. There is no hope for them.

                                         These are the men of war.

They stride into the land, taking no time to carefully pick their way through the dismembered bodies. Their feet crushing the bones of the fallen. The squelch of blood as it rises through the soles of their shoes, dampening their feet. The half-dead men grab hold of the soldiers legs, begging for mercy, but they are quickly kicked away. They get nothing. There are some occasional glances as men recognise something among the grass. Sometimes it’s the face of a neighbour. Sometimes it the precious items which lay close to the corpses. Photos of children, letters from mothers. Reminders of what they have left behind. The innocent boys, new to the ranks, are sick. Their faces fallen as they spot another man. They mentally thank god its not them. The frozen eyes are fixed on the air. Focusing on nothing but pain as the cruel weather finally wisps away the soul. Some loyal friend tries to carry a man back towards the trenches but he collapses from the weight. He cries as he realises that he cannot make it alone. Laying in the frost he watches his friend die a few feet away from himself. The boys are picked up, forced to go on.
  
                                 These are the boys of war.

Seeing the boys breakdown is a fact of war. The physical difference between the boys who enter and those half-minded men who leave is appalling. They waltzed in with a glint in their eyes; they were fighting for their country. The chance to prove themselves a man. They leave with a flickering glare, an uneasy shake. Their heads replaying the horrific moments again. Their yellow tinged skin clung to muscle instead of fat . They were fighting to die. The pictures of their family in their heads had began to fade. The faces fraying at the edges, the slight details were missing. What colour eyes did she have, where did her long buttercup gold hair end? They could not tell. They wiped away the tears from their hollow cheeks and clambered on.

                               They were the boys of war

The screeching gasps, the harsh grunts of pain. The last minute prayers, stuttering as they think of their families. The slow, distant trudge of the cheap boots. The odd splash as another man falls into a shallow puddle. As another man hits the dusty, earth floor, body wriggling in the depths of the trenches. The rest lower their bodies into the remaining space, the living laying among the dead.  They all wait in silence, they wait for darkness to creep in, stealing the sun from the sky. The unwanted chill makes them shiver. Huddling within the trenches. The warmth reminds them of the dancing fires that used to burn. Of childhood summers, with their teenager loves. But this is a dream, a drop of rain brings the abruptly to reality. As the search the scene for any trace of the old life they are disappointed. They do not moan. They are commanded not to.
                                          
                                    For these were the men of war.

The whistle is blown, they clamber out of their hiding spaces, launching their flimsy bodies over the trench. They run out towards their future. People dived as bombs exploded near their feet. Men were thrown into different directions. The soldiers lost all recognition of the time, hours trickled away, melting into the sinking sun. As they slowly crawled through opposition land, closing there eyes as another bullet soars a inch away from there face, they come across barbed wire. Flesh and rotting skin mangled in the mesh of metal, limbs tangled with uniform. The smell of blood is over powering filling your lungs with dread and sick. They struggled to breathe as they cut the wire, pushing themselves through the small gap, snagging their uniform. They had made it, mission was over.
   
                                     They were the heroes of war

They were gathered together, most had bullets through their leg. As the injured are sectioned - to die or to live, the last survivors watch on, running through all the prayers their feeble minds could muster. One word changes the lives of the innocent. One word sends the guilty to death. The shaking hand grips onto the bloody limb, a coward or a hero? It is a crime to your country to commit cowardice, but it is a brave honour to take a bullet for your King. The men are sorted and the regiment called. No-one protests, no-one taking their eyes off the floor as they enter. A man sobs only frustrating the Corporals more. Take it like a man. A few men in the crowd turn away looking at the sky for a miracle. The men sentenced guilty stand tall and proud, they know what’s happening as the regiment make a clear ring around them, ensuring they cannot miss. “Shoot” is shouted and they comply. They do not hesitate.

                                       For they were the cowards of war

The bullets ran through the bodies of the guilty, puncturing the hearts of the innocent, killing the survivors. Their blood stains the floor, a constant reminder to the friends, the family; the people who pulled the trigger. The scarlet red, soaks the floor spilling out of the soldiers bodies. It was more sinister than the ruby poppies which grow on the battle fields, more sinister than the scarlet red roses on the pure white gravestones. They were killed, heroes branded a failure at the last hurdle. Murdered by the people they fought with, their family at war. Somewhere, a little boy whistled God save the King. The solemn tune which marched the men to death.

            These are the orders of the men, these are the curses of war.