Week 8 - When I Was Young
He dips his pen in the inkwell one last time, once, twice, before finally writing the words, Love, Sam. Then he blows on the paper, watching the ink settle, and finally folds it up, slipping it into an envelope which he places in his jacket.
Outside, a horn blares and Sam comes out of the tent, heading towards the gathering. A high ranking officer stands there, and the hubbub of the assembled quiets as the man starts to speak. It is a speech about war, about victory, about fighting for the right side and making sacrifices, and Sam has heard enough speeches like it to tune it out, watching the beautiful radiant dawn, instead.
Some of the men around him don't tune it out; he sees it in their eyes: the eagerness, the excitement, the hope for a chance to prove themselves. But Sam's eyes don't reflect that same hope; he's seen the red insides of a man spill out after a brutal bayoneting, seen too many empty eyes that stared sightlessly into the sky after battles about 'courage' and 'freedom'.
He says nothing and simply stands there, waiting for the actual briefing to come after the morale-boosting speech is over. Eventually it does, and he starts to realize that it's worse than he - or anyone - thought. They had been in a few fights already, a few scrapes, but this was different.
The enemy has moved to surround us from all sides during the night; they have a larger force that has cut our reinforcements off, and they will be on us soon...
Now he sees that hope in some of the mens' eyes flicker, as they slowly realize that 'victory' here means inflicting many casualties before they are almost certainly overrun and killed. He sees small shakes, small rapid blinks as they realize there will be no warm welcome, that they'll return home in caskets instead of astride war stallions.
And then he sees something else - the hope flickers, dies, but is replaced by something else - resolve, a steely clench of the fists, a gritting of the teeth.
Not a man looks afraid, and Sam realizes that the officer is better than he thought. But more than that, he realizes this: if he is to die, he would be proud to die by these men, these brothers in arms who have lived and bled next to him, these soldiers who make no complaint when their chances for survival disappear.
Sam almost says something then, though he doesn't know quite what it would be. He raises an arm into the air, and some turn to him, but an explosion cuts everything short. A shell lands in the middle of the men gathered, it becomes a messy, bloody battle quickly, with enemies on all sides and their forces unprepared.
And yet, nowhere does Sam see a man run. They fight, even with fingers, arms, legs blown off, they still fight. The enemy forces close in around them, and they still fight. There is no hope, and they still fight.
Suddenly, there's an opening in the melee - a position that the enemy isn't watching, a horse left idle and ready to run. Sam sees a way out, a way to escape the bloodbath, to slink into the woods, to save his life.
For a second, he thinks about taking it; once, before a fortnight of battles, he would've done it without second thought, and found his way back to his wife and baby boy.
But now, scarcely a few weeks later, he doesn't give it a second glance, instead simply turning to raise his gun to confront another attacker, save another one of his brothers, fight for one more second.
Outside, a horn blares and Sam comes out of the tent, heading towards the gathering. A high ranking officer stands there, and the hubbub of the assembled quiets as the man starts to speak. It is a speech about war, about victory, about fighting for the right side and making sacrifices, and Sam has heard enough speeches like it to tune it out, watching the beautiful radiant dawn, instead.
Some of the men around him don't tune it out; he sees it in their eyes: the eagerness, the excitement, the hope for a chance to prove themselves. But Sam's eyes don't reflect that same hope; he's seen the red insides of a man spill out after a brutal bayoneting, seen too many empty eyes that stared sightlessly into the sky after battles about 'courage' and 'freedom'.
He says nothing and simply stands there, waiting for the actual briefing to come after the morale-boosting speech is over. Eventually it does, and he starts to realize that it's worse than he - or anyone - thought. They had been in a few fights already, a few scrapes, but this was different.
The enemy has moved to surround us from all sides during the night; they have a larger force that has cut our reinforcements off, and they will be on us soon...
Now he sees that hope in some of the mens' eyes flicker, as they slowly realize that 'victory' here means inflicting many casualties before they are almost certainly overrun and killed. He sees small shakes, small rapid blinks as they realize there will be no warm welcome, that they'll return home in caskets instead of astride war stallions.
And then he sees something else - the hope flickers, dies, but is replaced by something else - resolve, a steely clench of the fists, a gritting of the teeth.
Not a man looks afraid, and Sam realizes that the officer is better than he thought. But more than that, he realizes this: if he is to die, he would be proud to die by these men, these brothers in arms who have lived and bled next to him, these soldiers who make no complaint when their chances for survival disappear.
Sam almost says something then, though he doesn't know quite what it would be. He raises an arm into the air, and some turn to him, but an explosion cuts everything short. A shell lands in the middle of the men gathered, it becomes a messy, bloody battle quickly, with enemies on all sides and their forces unprepared.
And yet, nowhere does Sam see a man run. They fight, even with fingers, arms, legs blown off, they still fight. The enemy forces close in around them, and they still fight. There is no hope, and they still fight.
Suddenly, there's an opening in the melee - a position that the enemy isn't watching, a horse left idle and ready to run. Sam sees a way out, a way to escape the bloodbath, to slink into the woods, to save his life.
For a second, he thinks about taking it; once, before a fortnight of battles, he would've done it without second thought, and found his way back to his wife and baby boy.
But now, scarcely a few weeks later, he doesn't give it a second glance, instead simply turning to raise his gun to confront another attacker, save another one of his brothers, fight for one more second.