"War"

“War”
War is a hard thing, this pandemonium of carnage that is known as surviving.
For the goal is simply to win at any cost.
With no regard for human life, or rather, any life.
But the question remains, why are we fighting, and what are we fighting for?
The answer most people consider is survival, but those men on the front lines?
Those men were mine.
They died with a feeling of hopelessness as horde after horde of our attackers hit our flanks again and again.
"War is a hard thing."
Half of my troopers died during the first wave, blowing themselves up with mines at the first opportunity, hoping to take as many of the enemy with them as they could.
They died in the name of humanity. My only wish is to fulfill their dream.
War. Its majesty conducted like a glorious symphony as opposing forces clash on the front lines.
The remaining troopers and myself found cover behind our crashed dropship.
We continued to fire our weapons until our ammunition gave out or our barrels melted.
"War is a hard thing."
During the day we scavenged the dead hordes to gather weapons or stacking bodies in the hopes of making some sort of makeshift shelter for the nights to come.
"War is a hard thing."
At night, it was the hardest fight any of us had ever faced. The enemy immediately broke our perimeter of Anti-tank mines and claymores.
Our sniper, Thompson, died on the third night as the hordes closed in and buried him.
We all cursed this war.
With our full hatred we cursed it. Cursed its brutality, its violence, and its utmost horror.
By the dawn of the tenth day, we had killed the entire horde that came against us.
Banks had died just as the sunlight illuminated the battlefield.
"War is a hard thing."