The Way of the Soldier

Foreword-
If you have read my poem "Child of War" you will recognize the name of the city Dunham. This is because the poem is modeled after this story. However, the narrator of the poem is a young child instead of a soldier.



Way of a Soldier

--The year is twenty-two, seventy-four of the third age. It is the fourth day of the seventh month.
The time has come for us to march again. We have travelled through this endless marshland, and we haven’t had sound or sight of anything living. I think I have almost grown accustomed to the stinking fog that surrounds us, piercing our lungs and eyes. I don’t even think it is land we’re walking on anymore; the bodies of our dead comrades are more abundant than the meager grass.

The fog is playing tricks on our senses. The sounds of the marsh are blotted out by the mass of cloud that rolls among the men. However, the sounds close to us are amplified by the silence. Time is of no essence here. We cannot tell what time of day it is, as the fog blocks any sight of the sun. The only smell that reaches our noses is the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh and decaying fungus in the shallow water.
I can’t remember the last time I was dry. The droplets in the air condense around me and seep into my clothes. The men are lucky that it is humid, or else more of them would die from cold. We are all parched, our throats having not tasted fresh water in days. We can’t drink from the swamp, as the foul water is poisoned by the blood of our rotting dead.

--The year is twenty-two, seventy-four of the third age. It is the nineteenth day of the seventh month.
We finally made it to the other side of the swamp. Of our thousand soldier battalion, only a pitiful two hundred or so remain. The rest perished in the depths of the marshland. Some of us are beginning to think this is a hopeless cause. None of us think we’ll win any of the battles to come.

--The year is twenty-two, seventy-four of the third age. It is the thirtieth day of the seventh month.
We are approaching the town of Dunham. It is a small town, with a thick, clay wall around the inner keep. The rest of the village is unprotected and open to attack. Our camp is separated from Dunham by a large hill. I am standing atop this hill, looking down on our camp. The camp is a small group of ragged tents, and most of the men are forced to sleep in the open. Dusk is approaching rapidly, and we have to get some rest. We attack at dawn.

--The year is twenty-two, seventy-four of the third age. It is the first day of the eighth month.
I am standing in rank with the rest of my squadron, awaiting the inevitable call of war. I doubt I will be returning from this endeavor. The captains raise their swords, and we charge down the far side of the hill. Dunham approaches quickly. It is such a quiet place, calm, unaware of the oncoming danger. It is a shame to harm these innocent people. But alas, the lives of innocents must be taken to ensure the freedom of our realm.

It doesn’t take us long to crash through the outskirts of the town. Men, women, and children fall, trampled by the oncoming stampede of soldiers. My blade slashes through soft flesh, blood splattering the dirt around me. I turn and raise my blade to strike yet another killing blow, and behold a young boy of about thirteen years. He is gripping the hand of his mother. I look into the boy’s eyes, and lower my sword. Pain clutches at my heart as the boy stares into my soul. I see his silent plea for mercy, and a tear streaks down my face. They run between two of the few standing houses and escape the town. I turn back into the battle; blood once more the only thing I see.

--The year is twenty-two, seventy-four of the third age. It is the fourteenth day of the eighth month.
We have captured Dunham, but we are in dire need of reinforcements. I have been told to stay away from the action due to a deep stab wound in my left calf muscle. I will keep traveling with the soldiers, but I fear that it is a one way trip. I can feel infection spreading deep in the wound. It is almost like this war. Our resistance, the infection in a once perfect whole, is such a small thing, yet it brings great pain to its surroundings. I feel my life slowly ebbing away as I lie here in this tent. This wound is exactly like war, and will end like war ends: Death. I am leaving now, so remember my final words: live, fight, and die; I guess that is the way of a soldier.