As our eyes glossed over with the tears of defeat, we solemnly raised our white flag. The clatter of rifles falling to the ground harmonized by the hollow tones of bitter surrender rang through the piercing sound of gunshots and cannon fire. Our beloved leader could guide us no longer. The image of his mortal body returning to Mother Nature’s earthly grips was complemented only by his soul gracefully drifting upward towards the heavens. As the shrapnel tore and gnashed its way through General Cunningham’s crimson-stained chest, the spark of adventure fleeted from his eyes to be replaced by the most stoic of stares. Guided by divine intervention, a single shell landed mere feet from the head of our command. Like always, the Gods of War had been unjust. With cannon fire blazing through the murky skies and brothers-in-arms from both sides toppling like pins in a bowling alley, the Gods of War suddenly finally decided that they were bored. For hours, good men from both sides charged the frontlines, praying for salvation with every tap of the trigger. The instant cacophony of violence and bloodshed shredded the tranquility that preceded it. This was our last stand. Shrouded by dark cloak of the night, we readied our rifles, locked our bayonets, and struck first. We knew we could defend no longer. Ammunition had dwindled to critical levels and starvation threatened to bring about feral cannibalism. We had stood our ground in the bloodbath of stalemate, fueled by the desperate desire to preserve our own lives. Like fireflies, cigarette tips flared up all around me as my fellow men tried to get their last tastes of tobacco bliss. We were down to our final stronghold.
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