To The Hills of Death
By: Outlaw-2

The hills; the last section to conquer,
The drums; beating, draining,
Marching; from crisp booms,
Marching; till with sludge called blood and mud.

We raced; marching was hopeless,
One too many; our fleet fell like flies,
Blast of flames; we thought it came from hell,
With tanks of death; one rupture will do.

The field scorched brown; dominated with embers and warmth,
Scalding soldiers; who had wielded the flamethrowers,
To the crest of the hills; we reached,
To our dismay; we had to scramble.

Bullets rain upwards; defying Mother Nature,
Blood poured down; all too similar like a shower
A dead comrade lay next to me; I showed no expression,
I had no time; even to fall into depression.

We scampered; they chased,
They shot; we fall,
We retaliate; flames of torture came to us,
Scotch, whiskey; our drinking supply became fuel.

Howling; our dreaded voices echoed past the hills,
Wails of misery; reverberated into my burning ears,
Skin; wrinkled, charred,
Extreme heat; our bodies gave up.

A diabolical chuckle; I turned to look,
A scorching nozzle; right before my eyes;
Kill me; I begged,
None; I was left to die, painfully, slowly.