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Trudging on a shell-scarred road, columns of two, through swirls of dust in the early twilight hour; quilted rice paddies on either side, reaching out to brooding mountains. The hot summer wind blowing the scented incense of feeding rice shoots through our nostrils...we gag! We've come upon this place, in this valley of rice, where the dead lie red and withered, scattered about like autumn leaves blowing in the wind. Poked by hunched shapes wailing like the lost souls of a netherworld...echoes in my brain. The leaves carried away, one by one. The sky in reddening hue, subdued, bringing the night down slowly. Our bodies baked by the hot sweat of a summer day. The leaves turning rancid. The aroma of shellburst and decay, pungent in the air. We walk quietly, with reluctant step, suppressed conscience, to another front, another place...like this one. |
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