We Will Remember

Poland

You heard them before you saw them. You heard the metal signs being crumpled into  thin sheets down on the ground. You heard wooden houses, built on the outskirts, being rolled over. You heard the screeching of metal being turned into shrapnel. You heard the sound of death.

Death rode with the destructors. He covered the tin walls with his black cloak. He breathed his sickly scent into every nook and cranny. His skull of a face stared everyone into oblivion. His scythe was firmly in his grip, ready to strike anyone within distance.

But he never killed inside the obliterators. He killed everyone outside it.

Death walked in front of them. He stopped the riders with a flick of a wrist. He wouldn't kill them just yet. They had a job to do. Death inhaled the scent that was his own, and led his men forward. Only they weren't men. They were tanks. Huge, camouflaged warrior-filled tanks. No wonder the Polish didn't know what to do.

Death strode ahead, knowing what to do. He signalled to the men above, to what they were ordered to. Send the little men down to Earth. To Poland. The little men being bombs, about to devastate them.

But Death never felt sorry for anyone. He let them drop. THey crashed to the ground. The people were shocked, but not that shocked.  They were expecting them at some time. Just not now. But as the dead died, they tried to escape. They wouldn't.

For he led his soldiers on. Crushing metal on their caterpillar treads. Crushing wood with their heavy artillery. Crushing bones into dust.