Grunt
The pungent odor never to be forgotten hung over the battlefield drifting to the trenches. Days in the sun. Rotting wounds and flesh. Death hovered from body to body reaping and claiming souls. Some to Heaven above, many to the seeds of Hell. Death judges not. A job to do, he does. Trench foot no concern. His wet and damp feet and leggings far from mind. Her face all he could see. Awaiting the whistle for over the top and into Hell, again. The whistle blows and he grunts climbing the mud wall. His nostrils sucking in the unbelievable smells. Still, he sees but her face. He feels her with him and knows this is good. He feels her Angels with him. He remembers the horrors of war. The war for her love. This drives him ahead knowing he won her heart. As bullets whiz beside his head, he hears without hearing, "Your journey to Above Cognitive will continue."
The many landings he survived made this one no easier. The salt spray of the ocean waves pounding the hull of the driving craft. Prayers heard throughout, the men cowering down from the deadly fire. Praying a shell doesn't hit their craft. He hears but his prayers are of thanks to Him for her. She, his life. She, his savior. Without her there would be no Him for him. War he knew and did not fear. The battles he fought for her love. Against her will and determination to hate him. The war won when she knew without him and his love the seed of Satan would win. The things Satan brought to her mind, to her will, to turn her into one against God and His spirit. In His spirit she found the will to fight powers of Satan. With the biggest thump, the craft hit the volcanic ash and black sands of the beach. The ramp went down and grunts louder than the sound of battle went up. Forwards they all went into the guns of the Devil. God their only shield. As bullets whiz beside his head, he hears without hearing, "Your journey to Above Cognitive will continue."
Cong tunnels for miles and miles. Rice paddies of fields and more fields throughout the country side. Mosquitoes, patriots of the land; enemy of all alive. His gun hung on his shoulder as sitting for a rest. Her picture in a small frame all he could see. Canteen of water passed between all of his company. His prayer was to see her again. The softness of her skin. Fine silk hair. All above all, her voice. Her voice that of a Chosen Angel. Only if she had known. The war he fought for her might have been a skirmish instead. Shots rang out. With a grunt, cover he took for. Fail did he. Bullet striking his picture frame. She saved him again. For days and days, all he 'felt' was her. His Guardian Angel, as well. In the hospital ship, he awoke. With souls floating in the air, he hears without hearing, "Your journey to Above Cognitive will continue."
Throughout his lifetimes, he saw the future. The pains, the wounds, the blood, battles and wars, all through his lifetimes, all aimed for his last one which he saw. His ancient soul waiting for his true love. Unaware and unprepared for the battles and wars still to come. She saw into his soul. Without 'feelings', she saw no love which was there. She saw no pain, no hurt. She saw no past of his. Uncaring but to survive. He felt so much of her within. The seed of Satan fooled him good. All the wasted lifetimes. With faith, all hopes in the hands of God. All hopes to start the journey beginning Above Cognitive with her. Or all these written words of forgotten war stories to be told by veteran grunts in the memories of the journey to Above Cognitive.