Generic

Can they call themselves troops? 
Leather boots trudge on, like loose tumbling scree, 
Past peeling fence posts and tatty old homes; 
With panting and howls, dogs wandering free, 
Their target is sought near ancient mosque domes. 
On route hatred grows in children around, 
As innocent toys are crushed under foot; 
Respect dissolved at the fortified mound, 
Where sceptical eyes fear purpose to loot. 
But heroes they’re not, this white marching band; 
They’ve been tricked to think that evil resides 
In this barren world, this destitute land: 
‘Some Beelzebub now on horseback rides’ 
When they open eyes and see they are dupes 
That may be when they can call themselves troops.