Ok, this is set in the middle of the Crimea war. No it is not the charge of the Light Brigade at the battle of Balaclava...
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Guns were fired. Cannon were shot. Man after man fell the the evil bite of lead. They were the last to charge. They have to when the Captain gives the order. As they listened to the boom of the cannon, the "ratatatatatatatatat" of the field gun and the crack of the rifle, they shivered. Some of fear and some of the coldness of the air.
Two boys stood next to each other.
"I hope we are not called to charge anytime soon", said one.
"I know, but it cannot be helped",replied the other. He sounded much more refined than his counterpart. His uniform was out made of the hardy stuff the others wore, it was made from finer cloth. As the sounds of bloody and unremitting battle grew, the more the men spoke. Some made jokes, but the laughter they got back was that of nervousness and fear and not of mirth.
"I wish that I had never enlisted in the first place", one said, regretfully.
"I know, Gerald, but it was of your own choice", replied the richer one.
"I regret it", Gerald grumble fearfully.
After a while the Captain lifted himself out of the mud and spoke.
"Attention!", he commanded, "Right, you lot, when I say, we charge straight towards the enemy as fiercely as we can. And remember-"
At this point in the briefing, the sound of battle intensified and the Captain had to scream to be heard. "AND REMEMBER WE HAVE TO HELP THE WOUNDED AS WE CHARGE! DISSMISSED!"
As time went on, the sound rose and rose, but then dropped suddenly. The men began to talk again.
"H-how d-do w-we help th-the w-wounded?", a soldier, who's name was Stammer, asked.
"How am I supposed to know?", Gerald replied.
"H-how a-about y-you, Philip?", he asked the posher one, hopefully.
"Sorry, Stammer, I don't know either", he replied, apologetically.
"Oh", he said and walked off.
It was two hours later and the sound of battle had reached it's peak. A rider, who's uniform was torn and muddy from the fight, rode up to the Captain and gave him a piece of paper.
"Orders from the front, sir", he said, tiredly. The Captain saluted and the rider rode away, back the way he came. When the Captain opened the message, his face went deathly pale. He looked at his men and pitied them all. He took his whistle from his pocket, put it to his lips and blew. As the strangled note of it went from man to man, they all stood to attention, in a line along the barricade."Present arms!", he commanded,"Our turn has come. On the count of three, we charge! One!"
A cold shiver ran down all of their backs
"Two!", all of the men were thinking of their loved ones back home. Some had tears rolling down their cheeks.
"Three!"
Time seemed to slow down. When they crossed the barricade, three were immediately shot. They kept on running. Stammer was running in front of Gerald and Philip when the cannon hit him. Tattered pieces of uniform flew everywhere and so did the blood. They kept on running. The moans and tortured screams of the wounded and dying filled their hearing. They kept on running through the field of death. The Captain was shot dead. They kept on running. Until only Gerald and Philip remained.
"WHAT DO WE DO?!", shouted Gerald.
"I DON'T KNOW! WE MUST FIND SHELTER!", replied Philip. He sounded as if he gave up all hope of life. He knew that they would probably not survive the battle. They ran to a nearby crater and ducked.
It must have been many hours before they looked up again. It must have been late at night because it was black. As black as pitch. The gunfire had stopped.
"I think it might be safe to come out, now", said Gerald. I was the first time either of them had spoke for many hours.
"Alright, but I think you'd ought to check", replied Philip, cautiously. Gerald scrambled out of the muddy hole and on to the field of death. He looked around. There was bodies everywhere. Some weren't even whole. As he looked around, he realised that death had completely encompassed them. He saw some flickering light about fifty feet away. He could hear snatches of Russian. They were on the wrong side. He turned round and was walking to the hole, when someone shouted at him from behind. He turned around and saw a Russian soldier, covered in dried mud and blood, with a gun trained at him. He said something that Gerald couldn't understand, so he held his hands up. The Russian pulled the trigger. the small, round ball shot inside Gerald and he fell heavily onto the ground. The Russian marched off, thinking that he had done his duty.
Philip, who had heard the gunshot, leapt out of the hole and ran towards Gerald.
"Don't you dare die on me!", he pleaded when he got to him. Gerald was laying on his back and bleeding heavily.
"Phily", he breathed,"Do..do you remember the old cottage on the glen?", he asked. His voice was strangled.
"Yes, dear friend, I do", Philip said.
"I can see it. I can...see the village...ma...pa", Gerald was weakening.
"Don't you be saying your goodbyes yet! I'll carry you back to camp if I have to, but you're going to make it!", exclaimed Philip. He didn't care if the Russians could here him. He wanted his friend.
"I think...I can see...", Gerald slumped back and stopped.
"NO!", Philip cried. He knew it was futile, but he did it anyway. He slowly, respectfully, took off Gerald's glasses and gently closed his eyes. He then got two pennies and placed one on each eye. He polished his dear friend's glasses and lovingly placed them back on his face.
And there amongst all the death and destruction, there was love.
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Well...I can't think of anything else to say but, comment!
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