Randall Jarrell (1914-1965) chose to write about war as a brutalization of the person instead of the destruction of other men.  I think this poem is fitting for these times.

Eighth Air Force

If, in an odd angle of the hutment, A puppy laps the water from a can Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving Whistles ‘O Paradiso!’ — shall I say that man Is not as men have said:  a wolf to man?

The other murderers troop in yawning; Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one Lies counting missions, lies there sweating Till even his heart beats:  One; One; One. ‘O murderers!’…Still this is how it’s done.

This is war…But since these play, before they die, LIke puppies with their puppy; since, a man, I did as these have done, but did not die – I will content the people as I can And give up these to them:  Behond the man!

I have suffered, in a dream, because of him, Many things; for this last saviour, man, I have lied as I like now.  But what is lying? Men wash their hands,in blood, as best they can: I find no fault in this just man.