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The Unknown Squaddies

I read in the paper that...
Another boy died in the war
Gunned down by the Taliban
His body riddled with bullets
Inside I weep
He was only nineteen, smiling in his dress uniform
He was on his last tour

I switched on the news and found out...
Another man died in the war
Blown up by dissidents
His truck hit a mine
Inside I weep
His whole town turned up for the funeral, his widow sobbed
Clutching on to his young children

I listened to the radio and heard...
A medic had died in the war
Shot in the crossfire
Trying to save a civilian
Inside I weep
She should have been down the pub with her mates, drinking and having a laugh
Instead she's silent forever

This is not a rant
Nor a diatribe about the morality of war
This is not about who is right or wrong politically
This is a prayer to the unknown squaddies, the sergeants, the majors, the battalions

I hope your feet are light
I hope your luck holds
I hope you only get flesh wounds
I hope to not find out about your deaths thorough the paper, TV or on the radio
Most of all I hope that you die of old age, your family littered around like encircling planets

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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