When they return from War's Hell, they will never again be the innocent boys and girls they once were, they are broken, scarred by the Hell Of War. They need our love and understanding.

Once he was just his mother's little boy,
A source of delight for his Dad, Dad's pride and joy.
He enjoyed the harvest of living free,
Far removed from War's Hell, it's sorrow left him be.
Then he heard War's battle cry, screamed upon the wind,
Freedom was needing the help of a few good men.
So he heeded the call, this untouched, fresh-faced lad,
He bravely kissed his Mother and hugged his Dad.
He journeyed into a land, with endless sand,
Where fresh-faced lads don't exist, they transform into a stoned-face man.
Daily he had to endure War's living Hell,
He learned to stuff feelings too frightening to tell.
Softness became a luxury, a source to help you die,
As comrads die around you, with no time to feel or cry.
He had become a trained Killing Machine,
Finally numb to the horrors he's seen.
He lives amid the sound of screaming bombs and the smell of burned skin,
The sight of charred bodies, that use to be men.
Death is a looming shadow, that hovers each day,
He knows it stalks him, he is it's prey.
He silently wonders, if he will survive,
His daily task, is to remain alive.
He knows he'll never be that fresh-faced lad again,
He is now War's broken toy, that life cannot mend.
A sad stranger, will resume his former life,
Will loved ones be able to cope with the stranger's mood swings and strife?
He is War's Walking Wounded, War has stolen his mind,
He has finally come home, but will never leave The War behind.