Across the fog filled valley and up the wind swept hill

there are ghosts of weary soldiers with bitter memories still.

It is only when the sun sets behind the jungle trees, that you hear

the cock of rifles and their voices in the breeze.

The strain of night is deadly as each takes up the fight,

there is the flash of a thousand shots and bursting bombs of light.

The screams of men are now heard above all other sounds,

whilst the air seethes with a wretched heat and their blood soaks the ground.

No quarter is asked or given from either side of foe, for some they

die so quickly while for others it's... oh, so slow. And the crack

of a rifle, and the whiz that burns the air, sends a soldier

staggering forward with a cold and distant stare.

One calls out for his mother, another for a friend, then the stuttering

cough of machine-gun fire and they too, now meet their end. Fires rage

upon the scarred top and cast an eerie light, while the blackened

faces of living men are stoned with fear and fright.

God listens to their countless prayers and bows his head to weep

for soldiers eternally struggling, who never rest nor never sleep. As

angel's wings beat the night away, so goes the rumbling fray and warriors

sensing early dawn slowly start to fade.

The battle will resume again with night's-darkened veil, with no one

ever wining in this cycle of war and hell. For the hill, the respite is

shortly lived with the setting of the sun, as jungle voices now give way to

the echo of ghostly guns.

©Jack C. Perritt

2nd Battalion 4th Marines