The young soldier lay in mud, coughing blood

Gripping his rifle so tightly his knuckles went white

As white as his blood drained face

His once fine drum kit, now half caked in mud

Rain splattered his face, his gaping mouth made it seem like he relished it

From his coat pocket he drew a photograph of his father, his emotions overwhelmed him now

Tears streamed down his dirty face

I died a hero father, just like you would have wanted me too. Please, be proud of me.

Some few miles away his father kept an iced birthday cake in an ice-box

Knowing full well that the war would soon be over, and that his son had written just two days before, saying he will be home for his birthday