Thoughts of a wounded soldier

You would think it a unanalyzable operation but with so many people in worse condition than you; simply you can do is simulate and wait and wait and wait. This recline is so bland, the altogether spirited color being the staff office casualty ruby muscae volitantes on the bed linen. How those sheets fright me... They swop the sheets periodically, every two days I think. They take up rear end the in the first place dirty linen, crisped, starched and bright white. Renewal, something that we cannot do resembling the sheets. If we ar dye, we are stained forever more. Stained by experience, stained by sin. or so sins can never be forgiven. Ive been hither a month, waiting... if only we had something to do, but then we do not feel interchangeable playing games anymore. The state of state of war is nothing like I expected it to be, like the games of my childhood, with those itsy-bitsy bet sol dullrs and the toy guns; no system was ever faded then. But this is reality. Reality. We thought the war would be over by Christmas, and it wasnt. We left happily and joy securey to sound in that stink-hole called a trench! What fools we were! We know the accuracy now, but we learnt the hard way. As we sit here our minds campaigning frantically seeking safe from the horrors of the war.

My nieghbour is from the same battalion as me. He stares at me with his eyes, his tragicomic red infected eyes. His carcass is covered in blisters - atrocious ones... But not as painful as his memory. I hear him screaming when he sleeps, it worries me greatly. Hes lucky that he didnt die but is it worse to do it like this than live at all? I wonder if I scream in the night. Visions rush come to me in the night, If you deficiency to get a full essay, order it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com

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