There Is Nothing Romantic About This Game

The Cold South Atlantic



Smoke, Sweat, Blood and Tears,
To live these days with constant fears.
Visual images to block from the mind,
It's the smell of battle I find profound.



The smell of flowers is all gone,
To smell a woman is all we long.
No time to dream of things gone past,
Must stay alert if we’re to last.



Horrific injuries, constant pain,
To stop the bleeding we try in vain.
Cold & hungry for what seems like years,
Overridden by constant fears.



There is nothing romantic about this game,
Everyday different and yet the same.
Should we survive & not be mown,
God willing that we all go home.



Steve....Aka...The Old Sea Dog ....©

Veteran Index