The Last March

[Rudolf]

The Last March

Sent to the dark cloaked reaper by order, bound by their own country’s blood, they began their dampened march. A cold rain pattered off their tattered helmets and formed the sludge beneath their worn boots. Heavy fatigue and depression shrouded the regiment as melancholy hindered their journey across the harsh terrain. Many tears were formed, individual faiths and hopes were broken, as the low drone of a drum struck an influential rhythm through the masses.

Trotting along the sidelines, a solemn man rode upon his horse – a Lieutenant made obvious by the markings he bore. His head hung low and his broad shoulders lowered as he gazed with cold brown eyes at the crowd alongside him. His hands trembled upon the reigns, for a horrid thought would never leave his head: it was his fault, his fault that he and his comrades would die on this night. A shaky hand removed its grasp from the reigns and reached into one of many pockets. After a moment, the man pulled out a small ragged picture of his wife. His hazy eyes observed her beautiful features for a final time. A rogue tear rolled across a flushed cheek and fell from his chin, splashing down onto the portrait and obscuring his wife’s face. The Lieutenant hid his face from the regiment as he began to quietly sob.

Several hundred men knew nothing of their fate, for fate was unquestionably in the hands of God and in those hands alone. Those several hundred men knew of their odds, a simple number which struck dread and despair greater then any simple statistic should. Silence masked the regiment as they kept pace in the march, their final march it would seem. On several occasions a lone soldier would begin a hum, their closed lips creating a lonesome tune, which died away just as quickly as it began, stricken down by a prevailing silence. All eyes were fixed ahead, their vision was hidden by the summit of the rolling hill, and the battle was soon to begin.

The leader cleared his throat from repressed cries as he charged forward with a guttural voice, with an order that meant nothing yet everything to his men, a meaningless task which marked the beginning to many youthful ends, “Soldiers, present arms.” Simultaneously, the hundreds of combatants reached for their muskets; then once slung over their worn uniforms, they gripped their weapons tightly in each hand. “As you all know, the odds are indeed against us. But no soldier should ever be given odds, and you are to fight indifferent.” The Lieutenant made a feeble attempt to raise the long lost morale of his marked soldiers, “Prove to me, prove to those that doubt, prove to the world that this regiment will not find fault.”

Many faces became enlightened with hope as a hum was once again revived, and this time however, it lived. The leader basked in the tune that spread across his soldiers, “Yes, we will find glory. We will show those that don’t believe.” The hum grew louder as more men joined in and rejoiced. It was the moment of truth as the soldiers reached the hilltop, and before them laid hundreds of the bastards, arms at the ready. The Lieutenant drew his silver blade and pointed it to the stars as he gave a deep yell, “Company, charge!” The roar of hundreds of doomed men echoed across the barren hills as they charged toward the sea of blood laden before them.

However, just before the battle began, several witnesses recalled the words many of the soldiers shouted, “For my country.” So they say, even though the bodies of these men are dead, their words and memories live on and will continue to live on, longer than any one person could fathom, even when victory could not be found.

There is an impact, however, much more abrupt than any lasting words.

As an elderly man and his wife review a hastily assembled letter, their hearts seemed to break as their eyes continued to examine the paper with which their minds urged them to stray from. The regiment’s number headlined the paper as the woman rested her hands over her mouth in shock and the husband made his way toward a cabinet within the home, his head shaking as he spoke, “No.” That single word he repeated, half absentmindedly, with a trembling denial as he pulled a single content from the compartment.

A crude dispatch it appeared, his wavering hands reading the epistle once more. It was a note from their son, sent to them long ago. Within it he detailed his grievances and joys with his regiment he had recently joined, reassuring them not to worry over him and that he was to return soon. However, those last remarks were made unforeseeable as the man brought the letter to the paper and compared the two. They were clearly written by two different hands. There was just one similarity: on both pieces of paper the numbers “304” were inked. The mother produced a feeble wail as she nearly fell to the floor. The man simply looked over the two parchments several more times. Once, twice, thrice, and finally the man dropped the two parchments and covered his face, the sounds of his weeping rife, for not only a Regiment was lost, an only son was lost as well.