A Sodliers Diary

As I sit on this log in our trench I look around me, at my surroundings, my home. I try to form a nice imaginary description of it, only to fail. I can only think of two words that describe it best, dark and dead.
The sounds here are deafening to those who hear. The guns, the planes, the trucks, and the explosions are not only sounds but our fears. Whether it is the sound of a bullet hitting the guy next to you or the bullet hitting you, it is the one sound you will never forget. The cries and the screams sound as if they are coming from children, in reality they are. Most here are young and their lives have not even begun, for many they never will. They have been robbed of a right.
It is winter now and the snow is constantly falling. The days of sub-zero temperatures seem to be getting longer and the nights are endless. We struggle just to keep our hands warm and our toes are almost black from frost bite. Right now I am so cold that I am burning, it is as if I have lost all feeling in my body, it is hard to explain.
Besides worrying whether my toes are going to fall off, I strive to remain calm, to look at things with a positive attitude, but similar to other attempts, I have failed. To stay calm would be amazing because everyone here is living reality, I am seeing true hate. The hate toward the enemy, the hate toward yourself for being alive when your friend beside you just took a bullet in the chest, and the hate for being here.
It is funny to think that some of us here do not really remember if we ever had white skin. It seems as if our skin has absorbed the dirt making us permanently black. We spend hours on our hands and knees crawling to one hole for safety to the next. All though my hands are a coal black, I can make out a faint red spot on each of my knuckles, whether it is swollen or just dry blood I do not know. Just the sight of my fingers makes me homesick. They are so scrawny like the rest of my body as a result of little food. My complexion once of fair rosy cheeks and big blue eyes is nothing but dirt. I am sure that if I washed it I would see huge bags under my eyes and I would be as white as a ghost from the limited sleep and endless drills.
From the group that I traveled with to here, there are not many left. Most were killed on the field, others wounded and in bed. Those who do not die in MIR wish for death over and over. They curse the Lord, others, and themselves for what has happened. Those without a leg or arm hate those who walk and reach. Those without sight hate those who see. Those who die are missed, some lost and forgotten. Those who do not die are filled with guilt. Those who do not die are dead inside and have to live with the worst memories of them all.

Written June 15, 2005
This is not a poem but rather a small chapter from the novel I am working on. Please read and comment.