When I was young and went to war,
a bullet came a calling.
I don't know why it sought us out,
there's pain in this recalling.

It is the sweat that I can feel
long after all the faces disappeared.
It was the heat
and all the thousand shades of green.
It was the rain, the river, and the shore,
it was the jungle birds and blood,
it was that convoluted quest called war.

Pete had just had breakfast,
powdered eggs and ham,
heated by that stove too long
until the yellow turned to gray.
He was singing loudly,
the birds joined in it seemed.
It was the Rolling Stones he sang
from Aftermath that day

And then a crack of sound not loud,
but sharper than the jungle noise rang out.
His face exploded toward me,
smiling still and mouthing "Paint it black".
The world went silent,
The jungle, hushed now post attack.

I grabbed him as he fell,
and then a second crack,
a whip within the wilderness was heard.
his neck blew out
and with it came a demon carved in lead,
made holy by the blood and bone it held.
I swear I saw it as it pierced my face,
as Pete became a part of me forever.

A bullet came a calling
and it found us both that day,
when I was young and went to war
and Peter went away.