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CHEEZMAN: Here we enter the grounds. A battle is raging nearby. Of it we are blissfully ignorant, for now.
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CHEEZMAN: The hall of six thousands, all singing lusty martial songs, like Que Sera Sera
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CHEEZMAN: The little drummer boy, Augustus Gloop, unaware of the danger that surrounds him. Would he survive the day?
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CHEEZMAN: The wives and girlfriends were stoic in the righteousness of the cause
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CHEEZMAN: Only the nurses seemed to understand that this was not a season for joy
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CHEEZMAN: Platoon Captains briefed their troops, knowing that by sunset, some would be missing.
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CHEEZMAN: Cannon fodder, in training for future Glory
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CHEEZMAN: A would-be warrior's ardor is dashed by the bar maid telling him "nein, you cannot remove your shirt in here." Nor, dude, should you.
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CHEEZMAN: Abrubtly after leaving the hall, we encountered the carnage of the battle
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CHEEZMAN: Here it appears a young female soldier was blasted up the ass of her friend by a land mine. The true story may never be known
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CHEEZMAN: Some were identifiable by their uniforms . . . .
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CHEEZMAN: Some, clearly just simple country boys, in over their heads
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CHEEZMAN: Not even foreign volunteers escaped ignominy on this day
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CHEEZMAN: Those that survived were easily identifiable by their thousand yard stares
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CHEEZMAN: This poignant scene brought something to mind. What was it?
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CHEEZMAN: Of course! The pity of battle is timeless
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CHEEZMAN: This poor young man. Whether he was overcome with grief or wretching over the horror, we could not know. No one had the courage to go up and ask him
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CHEEZMAN: Some seemed almost peaceful. As if they were home in their spinning beds
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CHEEZMAN: The moaning was awful. We could only cover our ears and plead for it to stop