March

I watched the field below me. Bodies littered it, and blood seeped into the earth, of which seemed almost like a great pool of blood. Even the light snow that had fallen was red. Such a purity had been violated by the ravages of war, cruelly thrust upon me.

In the distance, near the edge of the field, was a camp, of which I could only see a great many bodies clothed in green, whilst tents rose above them, flags streaming in the wind. Flags bearing the thrice accursed crest of the French. They snapped ever so irritably, even when one could not hear them, and their bright colour stood at odds with the sky, alive with white flakes.

I felt a surging rage boiling within me, stirring in my veins. In that field of death lay many of my men, my comrades, my brothers. Ordered by myself, their commander of whom they had trusted so completely, had they marched into the battle field against overwhelming odds. And as their commanding officer, I had failed my men, and my duty.

I gazed long and hard at the camp on the other side of the field. The enemy. I watched as they began to prepare for the next attack. Cannons were assembled. Officers mounted their foam flecked horses. The wounded tended to their torn and bleeding skin. Soldier began to fall into formation.

Of this, I knew.

I watched as they began to march towards my encampment, rifles clutched in hands, cannons sinking in blood-soaked ground. My gaze hardened. I clenched and unclenched my fist. With that fist would I strike down the lions, the oppressors.

Behind me, my own troops awaited. They were brave—they would follow me into death. But how brave was I, their commander, who would lead them into death? I had already sacrificed many lives for my own. My troops lying in the blood soaked field had paid the ultimate price. They were dead—but I was alive.

What was it all, really? Life and death. Maybe life was just a dream, a fantasy conjured by God as he slept.

Maybe death was just the awakening from that dream. Maybe, when I had been shot and skewered on enemy bayonets, maybe when my soul left my body, I would waken? I would open my eyes and see all my dead comrades around me. My dog, of whom had been shot earlier in the campaign. We would all laugh, and joke, and wait for the others left behind in the dream.

But then what?

"Jack, your rifle."

I turned at the voice. An old voice, a voice I knew and trusted well. My staff officer and old friend, a man of 75 years, Clyde Levington. His old hand was stretched out, and in it was my rifle.

I saw my men's blood on it.

Life wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. It was a terrifying nightmare that I wanted to awaken from.

I took the weapon. I saw the blood on Clyde's face from a bullet wound, and I knew that by nightfall, more blood would be shed, rage be unleashed, that I and my troops would be dead.

We could meet up with the other dead men.

I turned back to the field, and tightened my fist around my rifle muzzle. Yes, we would all die. Our life’s blood would be shed. Rage would be spent. Revenge would be wreaked. The men who spilled their blood with me would be my brothers, and with my brothers would I die. I would die-- but not until I had killed many of the enemy. Not until I had caused many families to weep for their fallen husbands, brothers, sons, fathers. Not until I had filled many bodies with the lead of my bullets, soaked my own soul in blood, and let go my pure, unadulterated fury.

And then I would fall. I would die like a dog, screaming my rage out to the world, taking gunshots and writhing on the ground in agony. Let fly all the feelings that tied me down to this world.

Then all of us would join once we had awaken, for a drink.

Maybe, as I lost my lifeblood, and the precious world began to fade away around me in a haze, I would remember. Maybe I would remember my poor wife, doomed to weep for me. Maybe I would think of my young daughter, and how we used to run around with her dog, laughing happily. Maybe I would remember my old parents, and how they must weep along with my wife. Maybe I would remember my brothers and I, sitting in a bar. How they had laughed when I had my first taste of whiskey. Maybe I would remember how proudly I had told my family that I had been chosen to lead this campaign, and how much honour would be gained.

I had been crazy then. I was crazier now.

I...

I would lose so, so many years of life and love that I should have. I had already lost so much. Honour, family, friends, sanity.

used to want it...

"Any orders, Jack?" Clyde Livingston tapped me on the shoulder.

so, so badly...

I started at Clyde's touch, and set my eyebrows. Such thoughts as had been mine were for the dying, and I was not dying yet. Not even close. Today, I would die, yes. Today, I would crush skulls, break bones, with a gleeful menace. The worthy wrath of centuries of soldiers would fill my eyes. Today I would wreak havoc upon the killers of my brothers and troops. Today would my bullets pierce the enemy, and would my cannons scream with me as we crashed into the enemy.

honour, pride...

Today was a day of blood. A day of rage. A day of vengeance.

but now...

Today was my day.

all that is left is...

After my day would I awake. I turned to Livingston.

this...

"March."

f/n
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