Under a grove of palms sits a man,

broken and changed,

so that all others except men like him

who have tasted death

will not be able to understand.

His mouth and tongue parched by thirst,

are quenched by the trickles of water

which run from his canteen

down his throat.

He removes a walnut so cherished

and rare from his tattered coat,

and begins to think of home,

and his dog, Corn.

A smile appears on his face,

which is as foreign to him

as he is to this place.

The thought that runs through his mind,

is a memory of Corn and how he would chase

the fat squirrel, who lived in the old oak behind his house.



Suddenly a shooting pain

sprung from the lump on his head

and the missing toe

that had been taken off by a stray round

brought him back from the realm of dreams.

He knew that his battalion's foothold

would be enough to launch an attack

so they could take the island.

All he had to do was sit and wait for

the medics to find him and remove him

with the rest of his fallen comrades from the beach.

So, as the swelling waves pounded the smoothing sands,

he sat still

his armpits stained with sweat.

And took in a breath,

watching the black smoke rise above the horizon,

his rifle in his lap,

truly happy to be alive.