I sit here in a ditch.
I sit there in the mud
and think...
Why him?
He was only 18, barely old enough to fight.
He'd fought with courage.
He'd fought with bravery.
He fought like a mad man.
So why him?
And as I sit here bleeding out
The sound of artillery ringing in my ears.
The smell of week-old bodies permeating my nose.
The feel of blood running down my chest.
I sit and think...
Why me?
