I see them marching back, muddy and disgruntled…I see the blood on their clothes, their faces and skin. Some are wounded and injured, some smell like death. I can see the blood, wet and warm. I can taste the blood in my mouth. I see the men, sitting around the tents they have set up, talking and rousing around with each other. I hear their stories, the men’s aspirations that will never be fulfilled and just ramblings of the men. I smell sweat, grease, blood, and soil. I don’t taste much, except some of the food that they describe and grease.