A Fine Day to Die

Dug deep in the trenches, a captain is followed closely by his most abled men. They pass along the narrow paths, stepping around injured soldiers and over fallen heroes. With mortar strikes landing in near proximity, it forces them to place their hands to the side, ready to cling onto the walls to regain balance from the tremors of the explosions.

The sobbing of grown men filled the air, they passed many a soul too paralysed with fear to move. Many were mentally broken down, slouched with heads buried between both knees, clinging to their trustee rifles. Contemplating whether to end the mortal hell there and then or to hold onto the hope of returning home someday.

Such emotional conditions caused tension that proved contagious. It started with one soul, then another and that spread to almost half the regiment. The captain, however, kept marching to the front-line, head held high. He ventured into a dugout communication post and took a seat next to a large radio sitting on the table.

The frequency fluctuated in pitches. It didn’t matter how many times the knobs were rotated, the signal was in complete disarray, hopeless.

“Captain, sir! The situation?” asked one of the soldiers. A young man with a brave face you’d expect to see on a fellow twice his age.

“Well, son. We’re pinned down. Supplies are low. Only god knows if help is on its way.” replied the Captain, his response causing stirs among the ranks.

“What are your orders? Captain? Sir!”

“At dusk, we go over. We hit the bastards with everything we’ve got!”

“Sir, that is suicide!”

“So is staying here, private. So is staying here. Tell me, son. What day is it?”

“Sunday, sir!”

“Ah, that is a fine day to die, for his majesty”