As I look up to the sky and stare at the mismatch of colours arcing through the sunbeams and misty rain, I wonder why?
My gaze lingers for a moment before I brave facing my fallen comrade again. Olive blood runs from the hole in his chest, weaving a murky trail along the folds of his jaundice tunic.
Glazed eyes look back at me without a care in the world, indifferent as the stained picture of his family is consumed by the sucking, ochre mud. Turning away, no longer able to endure his scrutiny, a tear trickles from the corner of my eye.
I may be colour blind, but the horrors of war are as vivid as ever.