The granite was cold,
while the yellow and white lichen scraped the skin.
But the view was magnificent.
To the left the sea,
placid blue.

The red and green coloured roofs
which contoured along its shores.
Likened to an artists upturned paint box.
Splashing colour,
over the otherwise bland yellow landscape.

To the right sapper hill,
the main focus of attention.
Where neath the small puffs of black and white smoke.
The black ant like figures scurried,
to and fro.

The lone helicopters arrival signalled the end.
We had watched in small dispassionate groups,
whilst death had rained down before us.
There being apparently,
a fine line between attrition and slaughter.

Helmets off, berets on.
We moved down the ridge into the valley.
Towards Stanley.