Post by orinocoflow on Apr 5, 2010 17:26:30 GMT -5
The moonlight slipped through the trees’ branches, dappling the ground. It is October, and the autumn leaves twirled around in the gentle breeze. The campfire’s light flickered on the surrounding rocks, bringing warmth to the chilled figures sitting as close as possible to the crackling flames.
Five soldiers sat on identical sleep rolls, each occupied by their own problems. Keith Harkin, a young fellow of about twenty, was quietly strumming his guitar, the notes vibrating and hanging in the cold air. His nimble fingers played skillfully, something the others had always marveled at but never matched.
One had tried to beat Keith at the guitar, but failed. Ryan Kelly sat to the side, wrapped in black from head to foot, regardless the uniform. One of his best friends had died back in the previous battle, having not deserted him during the heat of it. Ryan would surely have died himself had the man not stayed and protected him, taking the bullet meant for the man who now sat brooding over the action. Just the day before that, he had gotten into a heated argument with him, and the result was the two throwing punches. Before the fellow bled to death, however, Ryan had not had a chance to apologize. Now, he knew that only a fool would go make war with his brother in arms.
A young boy, only fourteen, was wondering why he had ever run away to war. Yes, it meant he could escape a brutal life, but he realized that war was no place for a lad to be, even one who could fool all but one man of his age. He remembered the blood running down those wounded and dead soldiers’ faces, and wished he had never seen such horrors. The others had hardly started at the carnage, but he had frozen solid until that same man he was unable to convince of his faux age had placed a calming hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him on. He glanced over to that man now, sitting by his side.
Paul Byrom was lost in thoughts of the life he had left behind. He remembered very clearly, each detail, of how he used to hold his lady in his arms on those hot summer days by the river; in spring, on the fresh, grassy fields; in winter, before the fire; and like now, in autumn, they had stayed together as well, running through the falling leaves, laughing like children. But, when he had been drafted, she had abruptly broken away from him, leaving him only an angry note saying that she could not love someone away for a long time, not knowing if he would ever return. She had said she would always remember him as her first love, but that was not enough for him. He would not be capable of fighting for his country if the one he was fighting for had given him up so easily, when she had meant the world to him. Paul had been heartbroken, distressed for a long time, unable to concentrate on anything else.
Then the boy had come along, wanting to be in the war to protect his country, something Paul was trying to escape from doing simply because it would allow him to be with his love. Although the lad told everyone that he was eighteen, Paul could see in those blue eyes that they could be no older than fourteen. And when, last night during the first hand-to-hand battle they had had, Damian stopped short from witnessing the nightmare of war, he immediately felt like an older brother to the lad, comforting him, guiding him away from the bully. He now had a purpose to live, since Damian had refused to quit just because he was scared.
To his right sat an older man of about forty, pondering almost the exact same questions. He had left a family behind, a loving wife and beautiful daughter, to come fight in this war. Yes, he knew he was fighting for them, and that gave him extra strength, but was it worth it? Most of the other soldiers where much younger than him, more athletic, and maybe even smarter. In his day, he had been denied an advanced education because he was Irish and because he was forced to find a way to feed himself and his family as well. This newer generation had more opportunities, and was taking advantage of them. Did he belong here?
Suddenly, Paul shot to his feet along with Ryan. At one glance, they knew they had both heard something in the thick, dark forest surrounding them, suffocating them. All five quickly snapped to attention, preparing to fight if necessary.
The next minute passed by in a confusing blur. A shot rang out in the windy air, followed by an explosion of splintering wood as the guitar was shattered from the force of the bullet. As Damian grew pale from new fear, Paul wrapped a protective arm around the narrow shoulders, holding him closer. The hair was standing at the back of his neck, but he held his ground.
All of this happened in a few seconds, and then the chaos began. Shots were fired from all sides, and animals shrieked in the woods. Horses stamped and neighed; guns were reloaded and shot, then repeated. The five men were busy holding off the enemy when one bullet tore through Paul’s shoulder; gritting his teeth against the burst of pain, he still went down, exhaustion combining with the throbbing. Though he felt a bit lightheaded, he still aimed and fired at one soldier he could see shooting from behind a tree. This continued until, finally, he blacked out, his last feelings those of small, gentle hands laying him down, binding his wound as best as time allowed, and then hiding him from sight in the blankets scattered around.
* * *
When he came to, the ambush was over, and sunlight peeked through the sparse branches overhead. His shoulder hurt incredibly, and it took a while for him to focus. His throat was parched, he was covered in blood, and his shoulder was aching like nothing he had ever felt. His first instinct was look for the young boy. Raising up, he glanced around as much as his sore neck permitted, but saw no one.
Just as his arm gave out and he collapsed back onto the blankets, he heard a rustle behind him.
“You’re awake!” cried a high voice. Craning his neck, he looked up and saw Damian.
Five soldiers sat on identical sleep rolls, each occupied by their own problems. Keith Harkin, a young fellow of about twenty, was quietly strumming his guitar, the notes vibrating and hanging in the cold air. His nimble fingers played skillfully, something the others had always marveled at but never matched.
One had tried to beat Keith at the guitar, but failed. Ryan Kelly sat to the side, wrapped in black from head to foot, regardless the uniform. One of his best friends had died back in the previous battle, having not deserted him during the heat of it. Ryan would surely have died himself had the man not stayed and protected him, taking the bullet meant for the man who now sat brooding over the action. Just the day before that, he had gotten into a heated argument with him, and the result was the two throwing punches. Before the fellow bled to death, however, Ryan had not had a chance to apologize. Now, he knew that only a fool would go make war with his brother in arms.
A young boy, only fourteen, was wondering why he had ever run away to war. Yes, it meant he could escape a brutal life, but he realized that war was no place for a lad to be, even one who could fool all but one man of his age. He remembered the blood running down those wounded and dead soldiers’ faces, and wished he had never seen such horrors. The others had hardly started at the carnage, but he had frozen solid until that same man he was unable to convince of his faux age had placed a calming hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him on. He glanced over to that man now, sitting by his side.
Paul Byrom was lost in thoughts of the life he had left behind. He remembered very clearly, each detail, of how he used to hold his lady in his arms on those hot summer days by the river; in spring, on the fresh, grassy fields; in winter, before the fire; and like now, in autumn, they had stayed together as well, running through the falling leaves, laughing like children. But, when he had been drafted, she had abruptly broken away from him, leaving him only an angry note saying that she could not love someone away for a long time, not knowing if he would ever return. She had said she would always remember him as her first love, but that was not enough for him. He would not be capable of fighting for his country if the one he was fighting for had given him up so easily, when she had meant the world to him. Paul had been heartbroken, distressed for a long time, unable to concentrate on anything else.
Then the boy had come along, wanting to be in the war to protect his country, something Paul was trying to escape from doing simply because it would allow him to be with his love. Although the lad told everyone that he was eighteen, Paul could see in those blue eyes that they could be no older than fourteen. And when, last night during the first hand-to-hand battle they had had, Damian stopped short from witnessing the nightmare of war, he immediately felt like an older brother to the lad, comforting him, guiding him away from the bully. He now had a purpose to live, since Damian had refused to quit just because he was scared.
To his right sat an older man of about forty, pondering almost the exact same questions. He had left a family behind, a loving wife and beautiful daughter, to come fight in this war. Yes, he knew he was fighting for them, and that gave him extra strength, but was it worth it? Most of the other soldiers where much younger than him, more athletic, and maybe even smarter. In his day, he had been denied an advanced education because he was Irish and because he was forced to find a way to feed himself and his family as well. This newer generation had more opportunities, and was taking advantage of them. Did he belong here?
Suddenly, Paul shot to his feet along with Ryan. At one glance, they knew they had both heard something in the thick, dark forest surrounding them, suffocating them. All five quickly snapped to attention, preparing to fight if necessary.
The next minute passed by in a confusing blur. A shot rang out in the windy air, followed by an explosion of splintering wood as the guitar was shattered from the force of the bullet. As Damian grew pale from new fear, Paul wrapped a protective arm around the narrow shoulders, holding him closer. The hair was standing at the back of his neck, but he held his ground.
All of this happened in a few seconds, and then the chaos began. Shots were fired from all sides, and animals shrieked in the woods. Horses stamped and neighed; guns were reloaded and shot, then repeated. The five men were busy holding off the enemy when one bullet tore through Paul’s shoulder; gritting his teeth against the burst of pain, he still went down, exhaustion combining with the throbbing. Though he felt a bit lightheaded, he still aimed and fired at one soldier he could see shooting from behind a tree. This continued until, finally, he blacked out, his last feelings those of small, gentle hands laying him down, binding his wound as best as time allowed, and then hiding him from sight in the blankets scattered around.
* * *
When he came to, the ambush was over, and sunlight peeked through the sparse branches overhead. His shoulder hurt incredibly, and it took a while for him to focus. His throat was parched, he was covered in blood, and his shoulder was aching like nothing he had ever felt. His first instinct was look for the young boy. Raising up, he glanced around as much as his sore neck permitted, but saw no one.
Just as his arm gave out and he collapsed back onto the blankets, he heard a rustle behind him.
“You’re awake!” cried a high voice. Craning his neck, he looked up and saw Damian.