Descriptive parargraph

It was over. The final bullet had been fired, the final platoon had retreated past once verdant hills, the final soldier had fallen bravely in his last stand. They were returning home tomorrow, pulling out of the war-ravaged land that was Germany. Two men lay in the wreckage of the aftermath, spending their final day before they were recalled. Dead bodies clad in green and brown littered the carnage, corpses lying like ripened fruit all over the ground. The acrid stench of decomposition suffused the air as it combined with the piercing burn of gunpowder that made one wrinkle his nose in disgust. There was an eerie silence, save the occasional screech of carrion eaters and the distant, whispering rustle as heavy boots trudged over them. One reached out, his hand softly coming to rest on his dead comrade's neck. He knew he was dead, knew he would not come back, knew he had gone past the point of no return. No comforting pulse was felt, sending a lance of pain into his heart. His only consolance was that his friend had died bravely for his country and his family would never want again. The other crouched a few feet back, looking on in sorrowful sympathy. A single tear wet the dead soldier's uniform. Then they stood up, gravel crunching under the stomp of army boots. With a crunch of boots on gravel, they left, never to return.

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