I just updated this. The next chapter I'm posting (5) features Eric (who used to be called George) so I thought I'd put the latest version of the prologue up.
I believe this is the 3rd rewrite. Changed almost everything, including character's name. Enjoy.
Eric’s teeth chattered. A stinging barrage of rain pelted his face, swept into the shelter by an icy gust of wind. Over the howling gale he heard the stakes holding up the roof creak as they bent to near breaking point. The feeling in his body had long been robbed of him by the cold. For that he was thankful.
A bolt of lightning burst from the unforgiving skies, illuminating the camp. It blinded him at first, burning its image into his eyes. As it faded, for a split second he could see torrents of brown water cascade through the shelter, following the contours of the gullies they had eroded. The other bodies quivered violently as they pulled tattered blankets tightly around themselves. The night engulfed the last glimmer of light reflected from the sword blades in the corner, and it was dark once more.
Then came the thunder. It started as a soft rumble in the distance, like waves crashing against rocks out to sea. The sound built, escalating into a pain inducing crack that drowned out all else. The sound lingered for a second, wavering, before slowly receding. Its echoes galloped away through the valley, until the last remnants had died. Now only the wind and rain spoke.
Eric rolled onto his other side. In his mind, he cursed the officers who slept warm and dry in their spacious pavilions on the hillside. He shuffled to the side, moving away from a steady stream of water landing on him. Pulling the wet blanket as tightly around his thin figure as he could, he closed his eyes, and focused his mind on home.
*
“Wake up,” shouted a gruff voice. “Get up you lazy bastards. You march in half an hour.”
Eric felt the real world rematerialise around him; the wind, the rain and the cold giving their regular cruel greeting. He sat up, still holding the blanket around himself. Through the dense fog he saw the faint outline of a man on a horse. The figure moved slowly through the shroud of mist, shouting threats that made the rain’s attempt to cause pain seem merciful.
As if the cold had also numbed his mind, Eric remembered nothing of the previous night. Nothing but numbness. He slid out from under the blanket and crawled out from the shelter. He felt faint lumps of pressure on his knees as he crawled; bits of gravel submerged in the mud stabbing into him, but the cold took the sting away. With great effort, Eric pulled himself to his feet, sinking up to his ankles in the mire as he walked along the sodden track.
The wind lashed against his body, fighting his attempt to make it to the ration post. Silhouettes moved through the camp, heads to the ground. As they came near their faces became discernable; misery in physical form. Then they would move on, and become enveloped in the fog once again. As Eric neared the ration post, these ghostly figures congregated in long queues, silently waiting for what they had learned to call food.
Eric joined one of the lines. The huddled mass of people blocked out much of the chilling wind, turning its shrill cry into a muffled curse. The faces of those around him bore silent despair. The sound of a hacking cough broke the silence. It continued, escalating into wheezing gasps for breath. Eric felt himself being pushed as men shuffled away from the sick man. Once one caught something in this place, death was almost certain.
Eric cast his eyes skyward as if searching for god among the ominous black clouds. Heavy drops of water pelted him on the face. They ran down to the tip of his nose, forming large droplets which dripped like water from a stalactite. The clouds above and the fog in front joined in the middle, leaving no gaps where a patch of blue sky or green horizon might promise hope. The clouds flickered as lightning bolts escaped from them, but with the heavy fog it was not enough to brighten the camp.
Eric shuffled forward in the queue. Time was drawing on and he knew that there wouldn’t be enough time for everyone to eat before the battle. Not that he or anyone else cared all that much. They had resigned themselves to the fact that they would die; their much hated general had put them on the front line. A few of the luckier men wore light vests of chainmail that they had stolen, found or scavenged from a corpse, but the rest wore only what conscripts were issued: A grey shirt and trousers which gave no warmth, with a sleeveless leather vest that had a thin sheet of metal sewn onto the front, more a burden than a help.
Finally reaching the front of the line, Eric held out his bowl, and watched as the man ladled out the sloppy liquid. It was a lukewarm slimy mash, made so from the constant cycle of heating and reheating. He only ate a little. Any more and he was sure it would come back up. He returned what was left to the pot for its next round of heating, remembering all too vividly the lashing one of his fellow conscripts got on the first day for discarding his leftovers. He had died from infection a week later.
Eric pushed his way through the crowded camp back to his shelter, occasionally trudging through knee deep mud where the turbulence of feet and hoofs had turned the ground into horrid slurry. Two of the others in his shelter were on their knees praying. Eric joined them, kneeling on his soaking blankets. It was divine intervention of epic proportions that they needed, and that’s what Eric prayed for; A divine intervention that killed the general, the emperor, the emperor’s family and all other military commanders in the army. He wished nothing bad on the enemy, because they were merely defending their families and homes. The evil was on his side.
“March to the battlefield,” shouted the voice of the herald who had awoken them. “Get a move on you maggots.”
Eric crawled to the foot of his bedding and took the blunt, rusty sword. In his other hand he held his old wooden shield. He could feel the grooves where termites had devoured it scraping against his knuckles. He crawled out the side of the shelter, and waited for the pushing and shoving outside to subside. Sergeants in chain mail armour with crossbows rode through the camp, marshalling the conscripts towards the front line. Seeing one of them coming his way, Eric clambered onto the path, and was swept up by the disorderly rabble. The human tide pushed him to the top of a bare hill overlooking a swampy field. Behind them the sergeants rode, shouting threats and shooting anyone who complained without hesitation.
If the wind had been strong in the valley, it was a hurricane atop the hill, near strong enough to blow a man over. It picked up the falling raindrops, and hurled them horizontally at the conscripts. Eric soon learned that there were also hailstones falling, as one grazed his cheek. He turned his head away to protect his eyes. Behind them he saw movement on the hillside where the officer’s quarters where. Among the fluttering banners and flags, some men were conversing. A moment later one of the climbed onto a horse and began riding towards them. The time had almost come.
Eric turned away, looking back out onto the swampy battlefield below. Squinting through the fog and rain, He could just make out the opposing force moving into position. They looked to be a smaller force by far, but he knew they made up for it in skill and equipment. Their cohorts moved in an orderly formation. The conscripts on the other hand, were merely a quivering ball of fear.
It was terribly wasteful tactics they were using, but the people high up saw the tens of thousands of deaths it would cause as a worthwhile sacrifice. At that time of year it rained nonstop where they were, and the emperor wouldn’t postpone the incursion until the dry season. The general couldn’t send armoured warriors running across the swamp as their extra weight would pull them down and drown them, and he wouldn’t put regular soldiers on the field unarmoured; so the burden fell upon the conscripts. Eric remembered being told it was an honourable task they were undertaking. The general had said that they would be remembered forever as the conscripts who won a battle against a superior equipped force. The emptiness of the statement had been blatantly obvious, but nobody dared speak out.
Another hailstone struck his face, drawing him out of his nostalgic moment. He rubbed his stinging cheek with his fingers. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out all that was; knowing it was the last bit of peace he'd have until he reached heaven. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't block out the sound of men screaming and crying, or the fearful neighing of horses, or the feel of the razor raindrops that tore at his skin. Nor could he block out the smell of horse manure and tens of thousands of unwashed men. His body trembled, dreading the inevitable order to advance.
That order came all too soon.
The sergeants made the first move. Only once a few shots had been fired into the crowd did the conscripts begin moving. The men at the rear pushed and shoved, urging on the ones in front. Out of fear the conscripts picked up speed. The sergeants herded them across the marsh like sheep. Eric ran as fast as he could, wading through the knee deep water. Behind he could hear men who fell behind scream as they were trampled into the mud. Ahead men slipped and met the same fate.
Eric felt his lungs burning with exertion and his heart raced. His legs became hot, and he felt the strength in them dissipate. He felt that he wouldn't have the strength to make it across the field, let alone survive the fight. He breathed fast and deeply, but the foggy air was little good.
As they drew closer, Eric could make out a division of archers stationed on a grassy ridge behind the lines of soldiers, bows drawn. The sound of hundreds of twanging bowstrings announced the arrival of a swarm of barbed arrows. They thudded as they embedded into flesh, and splashed as they hit water. Ignoring the shrill screams all around him, Eric ran on with his shield above his head. The swamp turned red with blood, which spread out in patches around the floating bodies, some still clinging to life. An arrow suddenly appeared sticking out the back of the man in front of his' head. Blood sprayed up onto Eric’s face. He pushed past the dead man, wiping the blood off onto his shoulder. He flinched as another arrow landed in the water in front of him.
The rain of death subsided, and Eric picked up speed, thinking that the danger had passed. A moment later, another volley of arrows bombarded them. His eyes widened as an arrow slammed into his shield, snapping off a piece of the rotten wood. His heart raced as he continued running.
A sharp pain pulsed up his arm like no pain he'd felt before. Screaming, he fell into the water. As soon as his ears were submerged, the sounds of battle became muffled and distant. Through the muddy water he could see arrows stab into the ground. Feet ran past, stirring up mud where they landed. An arrow hit one foot, and a body came tumbling over, flailing around in pain. On the bottom lay countless dead bodies that had been trodden into the mud. Their faces were contorted with fear and pain. Water plants swayed too and fro, wrapping around the bodies as if they were consciously holding them down to drown.
Eric broke the surface of the water, leaping high into the air. He made a loud noise somewhere between gasping for breath and screaming in agony. The moment of detachment where it felt as though his life may slip away ceased abruptly, and the sounds of death became vivid again. He stood there groaning and clutching his wound. An arrow had gone straight through the useless shield, and his arm, and was now protruding from a bloody hole on the other side. A few seconds later, an even worse pain smashed through his shoulder blade as a horse knocked him down, its hoof pounding him into the bloody quagmire. He felt his face squash into the gritty mud, which cut at his cheeks.
Using only his good arm, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position. Tears streamed from his eyes as gripped the broken shoulder and clamped his eyes shut. The sounds and smells faded into obscurity, as his mind focused entirely upon the pain.
When he opened his eyes again, the sergeants were ahead of him, dismounted and forming a line so that the conscripts couldn't flee. His vision was blurred from the pain, but not enough to prevent him from seeing his comrades being butchered. He clawed his way into a shallow section and knelt down. He felt a splinter of broken shoulder blade dig into his muscle, sending a searing pain coursing through his body whenever he moved. He felt faint from losing so much blood. Knowing he would have to fix up his arrow wound before he lost too much, he stuck his sword into the ground, pulled off the mangled shield and grasped the arrow. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it through. He felt the splintery shaft scrape against his muscle as it slid out, and he cried out in pain. He looked down at his arm and saw that blood poured out even faster now that the arrow didn’t obstruct its path. It gushed so fast that he could almost feel himself weakening as it drained from him. Thinking quickly, he tore off his shirt and wrapped it around his arm like a bandage, hastily tying off the ends. The blood soaked through, turning the coarse material from grey to red, but the pressure slowed the flow.
"No, please have mercy," came a cry from behind him. He turned around to see a second row of sergeants marching across the swamp, killing off any fallen conscripts they found. Through sheer willpower, Eric hauled himself to his feet, his injured arm dangling limp at his side. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind as best he could, and fished his sword out of the water. He staggered forward to the first row of sergeants. One of them grabbed him and flung him into the melee, and he almost lost his footing. He cringed as an arrow landed at his feet. Another conscript's blood drenched him. He wiped his face with the back of his arm. Then a huge armoured warrior stepped forth to fight.
Eric instinctively held his sword in front of his face as the man swung his heavy blade. The force of the metal clashing resonated up Eric’s arm, and he staggered backwards. He looked up, ready to meet his fate, but the aggressor had shifted his attention to someone else. He watched as this new victim had a sword shoved through his gut. When the warrior withdrew his blade, the man's innards hung out of the gaping hole in his belly. He fell to his knees, wide eyed and muttering incoherently as he tried in vain to put his intestines back into his body. He knelt there, blood and gizzards falling out of his body as life slipped away.
Eric's stomach turned at the site; the most gruesome thing he’d ever seen. He bent forward, his good hand over his stomach. He knew he would be sick. He felt his stomach clench, and liquid moving up in his throat. His breakfast came gushing out of his mouth. It looked and tasted quite similar to when he had eaten it. He swished saliva around his mouth, and spat into the water where his vomit floated.
He was about to pick up his sword when another arrow flew by, grazing his chest, cleaving off layers of skin. He fell into the water again, grasping the cut and howling in pain. Some water went into his lungs as he went under, and he violently thrashed, trying to get his head above the surface. Breaking out of the swamp, he coughed up a spray of water. Through huge effort, he managed to wheeze in enough air to keep himself alive. His ability to breathe, slowly returned. He waded to a small blood red island where more wounded conscripts lay waiting for death. He held his chest wound tight with both hands, curled up in a tight ball of pain. He became light headed.
The battle going on around him seemed to run in slow motion. His mind drifted, and although he could see perfectly well what was happening, he couldn’t interpret its significance. A pleasant numbness washed over his body, until he could feel no pain. The world receded into a black abyss, leaving him only with the horrific sounds which he failed to comprehend.
I just updated this. The next chapter I'm posting (5) features Eric (who used to be called George) so I thought I'd put the latest version of the prologue up.
You know too much 
I thank you for taking all that time to find information for me, but this story isn't about military tactics or supply lines. Its about the experiences of people in war and the price of freedom. Readers can speculate all they like about logistics, because I won't go there, it's beyond my intended scope of this novel.
The stuff about hypothermia and sickness on the other hand is useful, and I'll add some of that to the pre battle scene.
Thanks and let's see if I can more to your point, as I am learning as you tell me here.
On the matter of prisoners being made into slaves, yes this is common for a society that sees less of the losing sides, but depending on numbers and conditions this is not a good thing. If you remember what happened at Agincourt, the prisoners were executed except for the high value prisoners because you may lose the battle if you are forced to care for them or even let them live. Conscripts as you point out are just human waves, I doubt this tactic will work well because of two reasons, the sheer numbers are difficult to hide, the tactics is obvious.
Using oil and concentrated strong points guarded by men at arms and other heavy troops the battle would be much like the old suicidal chinese and soviet methods. Throw thousands and thousands of troops at the enemy and you will win. For most cases this would need superior numbers of probably 20 to 1 to even stand a chance against your crack troops.
A wall of fire or other terrain obstacles will just herd the enemy into killing circles and the battle will be just pointless. I bet I can swing my sword and stab my spears a lot more then you have men. No armor means no value and trained troops will simply rip through and their morale would probably cause some of them to go berserk and even the most disciplined conscripts would break formation. The soviets (and germans at the end of the war) were shooting their own soldiers dead if they retreated from the field of battle. Your conscripts which already hate their superiors would probably overthrow them if things got this bad.
I hope you see the folly of conscripts as a general unit. Conscripts, even like in the Falkans (which I watched today mind you) had troops which really didn't want to be there and were easily overthrown against a British force one third their size. Soviet conscripts in WWII were also trained before entering battle, granted it was not the training of the Germans, British or Americans, but they were not peasants drafted to battle. On the field of battle, undisciplined troops are the most unpredictable element and to win on the basis of 'tiring the enemy out' is only going to be one PR disaster back home.
If you want to put them on an even level, give the hordes on conscripts a name, a symbol and tough leather armor. Do not have them untrained and make them work in units. Properly used footsoldiers, even unarmored ones, prove very useful for flanking maneuvers and thrusting into a weak point of the enemy. Tactically the way to use the conscripts is nearly limitless, just throwing them at the enemy would be a massive waste of life and equipment. (Since each one needs a weapon and each weapon will fallen into enemy hands very easily.)
As for the weight issue, yes the light troops stand an advantage in movement, but that is entirely negated by the fact they are the ones attacking. In Agincourt it was the French troops which attacked the English. Thus they had no safe ground upon which they could fight. The issue of mud is not such a problem if you stick to the grassy and brush above the river and out of the muddy low lands. So as the conscripts have to climb up and struggle in the muck, the archers are going to probably laughing and taking pot shots while long range units use spears to stab them to death before they even get close. Moving is not necessary and wasting ammunition won't happen if the waves are manageable in size. The bodies of the fallen also will become a wall and hazard for the other conscripts who now have to cross over their own just to get within striking distance of an enemy which can move back at any time.
No matter how I see it, trained troups will slaughter them because while the heavy troops won't be able to move to attack, defense will be easy. You also have the issue of hypothermia and sickness from the rain for conscripts which are probably not supplied well with extra clothes and pack. For the other side, it will only cool the soldiers in armor and let them fight even longer without breaks. Archers, if forced to fight will still be highly effective at close range. They should be able to get maybe two to three times as many shots off because it is easier to aim.
Lastly, the logistics, I want to return to this once more. Right now I am assuming both sides have very short supply routes. That is to say they have a major port, city or some form of supply center which delivers all the necessities in reasonable amount of time. I'll start citing some stuff form nationstates here.
Macabees on Logistics: War and Peace
"Napoleon is quoted to say, "An army marches on its stomach," and he is not far from the truth. Every single person who marches with your army, wether a front line soldier, a combat engineer or a measly cook must be fed, at the very least a single meal a day. For those that wish for one hundred percent combat effectiveness this number rises to just around three meals a day. Just as humans eat food vehicles eat gasoline, and so they too must be periodically resupplied with the essentials to run. So, it becomes an early realization that an uninturrupted stream of essential supplies is absolutely necessary during both peace and war. Failure to do so will seal the fate of your army, and doom its success. A list of essential needs of an army are: Rations, water, petroleum, spare parts to armaments, new uniforms, pay, etc, etc."
"Now, realistically, taking in mind logistical problems, what's a realistic number for your military? Well, in times of total war, meaning a complete draft - as in you're about to get your butt kicked and you need men fast - 5% is the absolute maximum you should go - anything else you'll have so many men in the military your economy won't be able to supply them even in total war. For anything other than that it's pretty much of to you and how much money you want to spend for your war. Most nations use 1% to 2% of their total population for peace time/normal war circumstances.
Now, 2% of your population doesn't mean that all of those are front line troops. Included in that percentage are logistical personnel - meaning, engineers, cooks, janitors, drivers, etc - and realistically the front line personnel to logistical personnel ratio is anywhere from 1:7 to 1:11, however, for all intents and purposes on this RolePlay a ratio is 1:7 is sufficient and is advised - most of the better RolePlayers use this as their logistical ratio. Some claim that the United States has a ratio of 1:4. Until Agnosticium personally tells me that number is correct I won't buy it, so don't count on passing with that."
---
For your time period, this remains true. Logistics should probably be 50% of your total army force, this number grows rapidly as transportation increases. Say you have an army of 10,000 troops. You need to have 30,000 meals a day, 210,000 meals a week. This usually results in over a 100,000 pounds of food. A single horse can carry about 150-180 pound rider and about 30-40 pounds of gear/supplies. Using carts this can go up nearly double. Still it means you need 250 trips to carry JUST food in for one week. Typically one horse could make a 10 mile trip a day back and forth carrying food, so put it at 90 horses required to service your army of 10,000.
That's a lot of horses... and just to bring the food in from 10 miles. It jumps to 180 for 20 miles and 360 for 40 miles. Now you have to think about where are you going to get 100,000 pounds of food per week and how much agricultural hassle it creates. 10,000 troops may require the collective supply of a great many dozens of towns and villages which are used to supporting just themselves! Now suddenly you are dealing with draining the resources of some 100 mile area to keep your army supplied in food. And I'm willing to bet that some 2500 people are going to be required to constantly bring in supplies to the troops.
That means your 10,000 strong army is really 7,500 soldiers and 2,500 logistics. A reasonable number given the times. Though the actual providers of the materials for the logistics is probably 10 or even 20 times that. This ties in how large of an army you could support.
Basically conscripts only work if they are defending their homeland and they are already part of the immediate area, otherwise it just does not make sense to send hordes of untrained troops against an enemy when they are not worth the logistics required to support them. If you cannot muster an army to attack without using conscripts you simply don't attack until the troops are trained. A process which takes several months.
Complex? Yeah, war is more often about uninterrupted supplies then actual troop strengths. Sieges were created to starve people into submission and break the will to fight by denying the critical supplies. Even a week will break most armies trapped without source of food or water. Just more for you to think about.
A main character in a situation like Agincourt, clearly on the french side would be doomed for the slaughter and would not be removed from the field for probably 10-12 hours given your description. And that is if the other side uses the natural border to claim all fallen are prisoners or are to be executed and made an example of to the enemy. As long as he is injured and falls on the field I simply do not see many good ways he will come out of this alive or able to participate in the story in some reasonable manner for some time.
Almost all these prisoners would have been nobles, as the less valuable prisoners were slaughtered.
i enjoyed your opening paragraph. IT had got me hooked the way you described your charaters and the way they feeled
Straight from the wiki:
"As the battle was fought on a recently ploughed field, and there had recently been heavy rain leaving it very muddy, it proved very tiring to walk through in full plate armour. The French monk of St. Denis describes the French troops as "marching through the middle of the mud where they sank up to their knees. So they were already overcome with fatigue even before they advanced against the enemy".[21] The deep, soft mud particularly favoured the English force because, once knocked to the ground, the heavily armoured French knights struggled to get back up to fight in the melée. Barker (2005) states that several knights, encumbered by their armour, actually drowned in it. Their limited mobility made them easy targets for the volleys from the English archers. The mud also increased the ability of the much more lightly armoured English archers to join in hand-to-hand fighting against the heavily armed French men-at-arms."
Agincourt was what I was referencing to. A great number of their heavy troops drowned in the mud when they were knocked over. They were also channeled into a bottle neck by the terrain which further made the issue much worse.
Again I'll cite the aftermath piece from the wiki for my next point:
"Aftermath
Due to a lack of reliable sources it is impossible to give a precise figure for the French and English casualties. However, it is clear that though the English were considerably outnumbered, their losses were far lower than those of the French. The French sources all give 4,000–10,000 French dead, with up to 1,600 English dead. The lowest ratio in these French sources has the French losing six times more dead than the English. The English sources vary between about 1,500 and 11,000 for the French dead, with English dead put at no more than 100. The lowest ratio in the English sources has the French losing more than fifty times more dead than the English.[29]
Barker identifies from the available records "at least" 112 Englishmen who died in the fighting (including Edward of Norwich, 2nd Duke of York, a grandson of Edward III), but this excludes the wounded. One fairly widely used estimate puts the English casualties at 450, not an insignificant number in an army of 6,000, but far less than the thousands the French lost, nearly all of whom were killed or captured. Using the lowest French estimate of their own dead of 4,000 would imply a ratio of nearly 9–1 in favour of the English, or over 10–1 if the prisoners are included.
The French suffered heavily. The constable, three dukes, five counts and 90 barons all died. Estimates of the number of prisoners vary between 700 and 2,200, amongst them the Duke of Orléans (the famous poet Charles d'Orléans) and Jean Le Maingre, Marshal of France.[30] Almost all these prisoners would have been nobles, as the less valuable prisoners were slaughtered."
No matter how you look at this, they were out numbered and still managed to pull off a 9 to 1 kill ratio against superior troops. It was a massacre, especially on the officer side for the french, such a battle literally devastates the army to a point that another attack is impossible with the leadership destroyed.
zankoku_na_tenshi's praise is rather true for the gruesome factor, but then again it is because few fantasy cross over into the military genre and simply use the idea of war to further the plot. To see from this perspective is a different genre by doing so, which is why I focused on the military issues rather then writing errors in the piece.
A battle like Agincourt, in decidedly more filth and far worse terrain, would just be a disaster. For all the points I already said. So yes, while historically a case exists such incompetence given precedent makes further mistakes negligent. A main character in a situation like Agincourt, clearly on the french side would be doomed for the slaughter and would not be removed from the field for probably 10-12 hours given your description. And that is if the other side uses the natural border to claim all fallen are prisoners or are to be executed and made an example of to the enemy. As long as he is injured and falls on the field I simply do not see many good ways he will come out of this alive or able to participate in the story in some reasonable manner for some time.
Hey, its up to you though.
Thanks everyone for the advice. I'll seriously consider everything you've said for my third draft (Yes, what you see is my second draft. I'd rather post a photo of myself naked on the internet than a first draft. Well perhaps not)
this is a much more realistic depiction of a battle than most fantasy books ever dare to go into, and I’m glad to see it
Arcaus wrote:I'm sorry about this but i just have to say it.
Please, please for the love of god, every single writer in the world, hear my rant
I liked it, it was interesting but there is just one thing i need to know.
why do writers, not just you, aways butcher their characters, pitting them against impossible battles and foes and watch them get chopped into bits and fall unconscious, it's not fun, its not exciting, its not like we fear that this person might die, cause they won't because they are the main character and never ever die, if you've ever read harry potter then you'll know what I'm on about, every time Harry feints i die a little inside, let your characters beat he odds, kick some ass! make it a close shave between life and death, and make us think that the character is dispensable and then it's exicting...if its watching another genric character get beaten up then i'm not feeling it at all.
Arcaus
Ps. it's not JUST you
Hi there! Haven’t seen you around much, so welcome to YWS! ^_^
Okay, first things first, I really enjoyed this piece. ^_^ I thought it was extremely well-written, and I could identify with and sympathize with your veiwpoint character right away. I’d only known him for a few paragraphs, but already it was important to me to see what happened to him, already I hoped to see him survive, and already I felt sympathy for his situation. I could really feel for his vulnerability and how he’d been forced into a terrible situation.
Also, major applause for one thing—this is a much more realistic depiction of a battle than most fantasy books ever dare to go into, and I’m glad to see it. I get very frustrated, very fast with fantasy that spends all its time glorifying war without ever acknowledging the consequences of it, and unfortunately most fantasies do. So I was glad to see a story that depicted a battle as more about its horrors than its glories, the way things are in the real world, without any idealization.
Also, I love your title. It made me curious to know what the story was about right away.
Just a couple of suggestions:
He sat up, tears streaming from his eyes and gripped the broken shoulder and clamped his eyes shut.
George's stomach turned at the site,
Once he regained the ability to breath, he focused on his chest wound.
G'day mate! (I'm sorry, couldn't resist... won't do it again.) Welcome to YWS! You can call me Stella or any variation thereof, and I shall be your reviewer today.
I. NITPICKS
George lay shivering in the mud
Like any other conscript, George harbored a deep hatred of his commanders. Conscripts were considered expendable, their primary role being the first to die in battle, so that the higher ranking soldiers could survive.
'you want some or not.'
He had died from infection a week later.
They were also much better trained and more experienced though.
Blood and bone fragments hit George in the face.
George's stomach turned at the site,
Big mistake.
He took off the rest of his shirt
He was passed into another set of hands which dragged him from the battle.
He lapsed into uncosciousness.
At this point there's only 1 main character so yes, he obviously isn't going to die (yet). The next chapter introduces five new characters, and don't worry, two of them have already died in what I've drafted so far (7 chapters). Probably only half way, and there'll be plenty more characters for you to get attatched to and plenty more time to do it before they die.
I probably just revealed too much of the story but ahh well.
Please note that I can't garuntee that your favourite character will die. 
I'm sorry about this but i just have to say it.
Please, please for the love of god, every single writer in the world, hear my rant
I liked it, it was interesting but there is just one thing i need to know.
why do writers, not just you, aways butcher their characters, pitting them against impossible battles and foes and watch them get chopped into bits and fall unconscious, it's not fun, its not exciting, its not like we fear that this person might die, cause they won't because they are the main character and never ever die, if you've ever read harry potter then you'll know what I'm on about, every time Harry feints i die a little inside, let your characters beat he odds, kick some ass! make it a close shave between life and death, and make us think that the character is dispensable and then it's exicting...if its watching another genric character get beaten up then i'm not feeling it at all.
Arcaus
Ps. it's not JUST you
Thank You Midnight vampire for your first rate review. No I didn't think it was too harsh.
I actually hadn't noticed how I'd repeated the "gust of wind" phrase, even though I'd read it three times. Thanks for pointing it out.
Thats strange with the quotation marks, I've only ever seen them as 's in books. Perhaps they have different formatting here in Australia.
The stiff dialogue: Yes, I find making characters realistic one of the hardest parts about writing. Humans are so complicated, but I'll get there (Hopefully).
Stelagineva:
Also ,I'm pretty sure I'd do the same in his condition and feel the same. But all he ever does is complain about how much being there sucks. Why is he there? if he doesn't like it ,why did he join the army in the first place? Was he forced to do it?
Hey! My names MidnightVampire (call me whatever you wish, as long as it's nice) and I guess I'll be reviewing your piece today. So, saddle up (that sounds really cheesy doesn't it? Sorry.), because I'm going to get very, extremely, nitpicky. I apologize for what I'm about to do.
So. Lets start off with the good things, shall we?
The Good
*First of all. Your title was what originally drew me in to reading this piece. It makes me wonder what the peace is about. Well done.
Hippie wrote:George lay shivering in the mud as an icy gust of wind blew in under the flimsy sheet of canvas. He was crammed in with another four boys of similar age, all dressed in dirty old uniforms. Rain pelted down, sending torrents of water gushing through small gullies that ran right through their leaky shelter. In the far corner lay a pile of rusty swords and worn out splintery shields.
The conscripts on the other hand, were merely a quivering ball of fear.
Feeling a presence above him, George assumed he was about to meet God, and looked up. But instead of the almighty, there was an enemy warrior. Good, thought George. Finish this and end my suffering. He closed his eyes and waited. But no merciful blade sent him from this world. Instead he felt hands grab him. He was passed into another set of hands which dragged him from the battle. He opened his eyes as he was set down among other wounded conscripts. The ground here was dry and his head felt heavy. He lapsed into uncosciousness.
nestled right in the valley where the water built up into brown waist deep puddles.
On the other side of the valley were the regular soldiers. At least their shelters had walls and they weren't where all the water ended up.
George waited in silence. He could plainly see the despair on the other men's faces. Someone ahead of him threw up. George cast his eyes skyward so as not to see the vomit. Ominous black clouds covered the sky and drops of water stung his eyes.
How is it possible for something to be stale and a slimy mash at the same time? They sort of contradict each other. I would consider changing some of the adjectives here, so that the reader doesn't get confused.George held out his bowl and watched the sloppy liquid fill it. It was lukewarm, stale and had been mostly turned into a slimy mash from being reheated so many times.
He prayed with all his heart that this senseless war would stop, that the emperor would die, and with him his goal to make the world his dominion.
'The rest of the army has two hours.'
I think it's pretty good. From what i gathered they're at war ,and that's about it.It's really depressing ,hope it gets lighter .
Here's a piece of advice ,and I'm not sure if you'll follow it ,but I'm just saying this. As a reader I would find it more interesting if the action moved quicker. For example you have two paragraphs that only explain how cold George was.
Also ,I'm pretty sure I'd do the same in his condition and feel the same. But all he ever does is complain about how much being there sucks. Why is he there? if he doesn't like it ,why did he join the army in the first place? Was he forced to do it?
I would also say a bit about developing his character. He doesn't seem to know any of the boys he lay next to. Did they not talk to eachother at all? Why not? You could go into detail with that one.
Ofcourse that's just advice from someone who's way less expirienced than you, but it's just something to think about.
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