I still remember the faces of the men we killed. Men, women, children. Chicken farmers, most of them.
Locked in tents beneath the unabating sun. Blown to pieces by missles poorly aimed.
Men I helped die.
I try to stay awake as long as possible. The dreams surround the dead. I yearn for life, but death prevails.
I almost yearn for the day an account is held. None of us will be forgiven.
Please, judge us.
Years pass, but not the guilt. The horrible guilt.