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There was death all around us; even the sand upon which we slept was dying.

What did the fools expect, a party? War is many deaths, fought on many fronts, many different interactions and subsequently seeming unrelated events linking together to form a whole picture. A struggling nation dying, collapsed upon itself in utter desperation, fighting against an unstoppable foe; it is the culmination of that ruin.

I've killed countless more than they can imagine, no questions asked. The same fools here idolize me for it, yet still couldn't comprehend that which they sing praises of; children play war in jesting mockery and it is this mock of death they expect, not the totality of it.

How disgustingly pathetic. Trained for years, and for what? To mourn the loss of enemy life? To feel ill as they look at the damages we've caused? Sympathize the fall and ruination of a whole nation?

Weakness. Faulty training. Pathetic "wholesome" children, deathly terrified of mortality. Let the cowards run away, crying into their warm pillows and safe comforts of home; I will turn the great ocean red whether they still praise me for it or not. It is our duty to perform, and do so effectively. There is no failure, no turning back, and anything substandard is unacceptable. The blood of those who perform thus will join that of the enemy in the ocean.

War is no time for slacking, or babysitting children uncertain of their actions; it is the change of many things brought about by devastating, debilitating, deliberate death.