Okay, so this would be like a part of a story. I was inspired to write this, but I didn't have the rest of my story planned out. I might continue writing about this, or at least about war. It's very sad and it is supposed to show the serious side of war. Some people don't understand the severity and sadness of war. Anyways, leave a comment please! Tell me how I can improve it.

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The armies surged forward, battle cries and trumpets sounded as the soldiers ran towards their enemies. "Onward to victory! Kill the last of them! To arms men, to arms!" Mayhem rules this battle as men in blue uniforms crash against men in green.

Cold steel clashes against wooden shields and spears. One man shoves his sword into another's heart, laughing hysterically, only to feel steel enter between his own ribs.

Men fall left and right. Horses stampede madly throughout the chaos, trampling those who do not get out of the way in time. All too soon there are no longer cries of victory or triumph. Now only the wails of dying men and the agonized screams of those still battling fill the air.

Men clutch at gaping wounds, it is a death match. Fight or die. It is hard to tell who is friend and who is foe so men stumble blindly, slashing at enemies they can no longer see through the streams of blood that cover their eyes.

A man tries to flee the terrors of this battle but is quickly speared through the back. Men scream in pain as they lay on the ground. Blue mixes with green and a sickly red spreads throughout it all. The stench of dying men and the bitter taste and smell of coppery, salty blood is all around.

Eventually a few ragged men are left, their green uniforms dirty and ragged. One man stands alone, bitter tears pouring out of bloodshot eyes as he sways shakily over his fallen comrades. He staggers through the field, holding his bloody sword in one hand and trying to stem the flow of blood from a wound with the other.

He had survived. He had won for his country, right? He felt no exhilaration, only pain and exhaustion. At what cost had they won? Was this what winning was?

Wading through the bodies, he found his best friend. He brushed blood off of the other man's mouth and reverently closed his wide eyes that seemed so glassy, so still in death. He grasped him to his chest and wept aloud. What would he tell his son? A son and a mother waited at home for him, a little boy just waiting for his daddy to come home.

Standing he made his way towards the edge of the field with a heavy heart.

Pausing at a sound, he jumped as a boy groaned and shifted beneath him. He saw a boy of about twelve or thirteen years staring at him. The boy's frightened eyes pleaded with him, crying, saying everything that his mouth could not say. The man looked down and saw the boy had received a fatal wound.

Nevertheless, he tried to staunch the flow. But the boy's cracked lips parted into a silent scream when he touched it. Blood bubbled in his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head. The man felt bile rise in his throat, the stench and the horror of watching that boy die overwhelmed him and he had to turn away.

This "enemy" was so young. He stared, and his heart ached for this soldier boy, for his friends, for the massacred people. This was the glorious honor he had enlisted for? When he was taught to fire a gun, they aimed at wooden targets. They never told him that he would next be aiming for children.

This, this bloody massacre was worth winning a battle fought for a blood stained field? People lay in pools of red, their bodies carpeted the field and he cried out in anger, anguish, pain, and sorrow. Red, green, and blue. Man, child, soldier. Everyone was the same. He was fighting real men. Real people. This wasn't the fantasy of war that children played at home in the ditches, pretending to shoot each other, laughing when someone got "hit". This was real. This was war.