A late 4th of July post.

The soft ground embraced him as hey lay down.
He was tired. All of the work he had done, all of the struggles he had pushed through to get here, they ran back through his mind.
Sighing, he rolled over to face the blue sky.
Oblivious to the macabre scene wrapping itself around him, he stares at the clouds as they float scerenely, ironically, overhead. The pain subsided as he thought of his child at home. Would he understand? Would he grow up strong?
His thoughts slowed, as did his heart. He was calm now.
His wound burned now, but the pain wasn't felt. He was dying, out here, for his country.
Eyes rolled back, glazed, he passed away.
- - -
Hours later, the battle ended, the ground red and black with blood and soot, they set out to claim their dead.
Each man was searched, tags and personal inventoried, and returned to the body. Then they were zipped into bags, and shipped off, to be replaced with fresh, live bodies.
Their deaths were not forgotten, nor were they marked and celebrated every year as the heroes they were.
Families, broken apart, left them behind in search of happier times.
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But their efforts were not in vain. Without men like these, we could not have what we have today.


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