It was jungle warfare today.
My unit scurried through the bush thick with heat and humidity. [funny va-jay-jay-joke here]. The trees were abuzz with tension and frenzy. Birds were playing dangerous walk under if you dare games, clinging to wires and branches, and aiming. Always aiming.
Then, happening so suddenly I didn’t even notice, I was hit from a wire-bound sniper!
It took me a few steps and the sudden feeling of warm, watery goop running down my arm to realize what had happened. Not thinking, not feeling, just acting, I quickly staunched the wound with a napkin. Only when I was satisfied that it had absorbed all that it could did I lift the corners of the makeshift bandage.
Clear. Good news! It was only a flesh wound! No … wait … bird poo is supposed to be opaque. Maybe that bird wasn’t healthy. Hmmm.
No. No time for regret. No time for tears. Have to keep moving on. War doesn’t stop to be grumpy.
The unit resumed it’s march. Just a little farther down the trail, we encountered a booby trap:
Cunning, but easily defused. A sure sign we were getting closer.
The insects shrieked around us as we pushed through the soupy air. The noise of the nearing conflict was beginning to grow. Or maybe it was the nearby cabs. It was just really loud and hot.
On a nearby ridge, we found scattered propaganda and spent artillery shells:
According to our source, we would soon be where we needed to go.
As we descended down the embankment, we found it. Right in the middle of the jungle, a pile unlike any I’d seen yet:
And then, even farther down where the skeletal trees met the dead earth, more carnage:
When they failed me, someone nearby had chiseled out my words for me:
You may now weep.