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Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Soldier to Life's Battles

54th Battalion. 4th Division. Unit Of Measurement 984. Belgium. 1944. Crumbling buildings. Strewn bodies. A growing fear. Boiling, uneasy groans. Seeing beyond the pale visible light of the warfare to the dim gleam of death. Something is inside of these men, twitching, squirming. Just the pebbles of a once great civilisation crunching beneath their feet. walking steady, keeping your caput up, looking around cautiously, sometimes drawn into the grave of idea and unweariness. A dead organic structure lies against a building. Cipher notices. More marching. A soldier's caput falls, himself still marching. A girl. A face. A lover. A friend strike hards him out of dreamings with a gentle hit. More marching. More climbing through the traughs of earth. Conquest more district in the incubus of existence. Squinting. Confusion. Fog. Myst. But a clear day. Rest stop. A soldier sit downs on debris and mopes the table of contents of his canteen on his face. Another rubs his cervix with a achromatic cloth. Lying on his stomach, occassionally making noises, another soldier stairway into the inevitable future, undeniable fate. He turns over on his back, his arm by his side. He acquires up and leaves, his gun left. Clinking and clanking of tools and weapons, as everyone senses the move out order. Then it comes. And more than marching. They're on the route that Pbs no where and it travels for statute statute miles and miles. They will walk until their feet had worn down, and they had nil but nubs left, and then they would walk 10 statute miles more.

His rifle in his hands, moving at the same pace of the other soldiers, Che walked with about as much uncertainness as he have inexperience. He was, like many of the soldiers in his platoon, a soldier, a boy, a man, a lover, a hater, a animal of passion, desire, love, and lust. He was in another state and sacrificing old age of his life that would torture him for years. The sentiment of this varied from adult male to adult male in the platoon. To some, it was a loyal phone call to duty, and to others it was just a requirement, while others still were Pacifists who had been tortured and threatened with imprisonment by the United States government, as was not uncommon. It didn't take long for the nationalists to recognize that what they were doing was hardly patriotic, that it was not helping their people, nor was it helping any people. Either way, like Che, the members of this platoon were here on foreign soil, armed, with orders to destroy, themselves unready to kill. The platoon moves, until it happens its locations: no where. The platoon leader tells his soldiers that they're sleeping here, among the debris with rats and roaches.

Nighttime. A cloak of darkness spreading over the land, as soldiers retired to the land for sleep. As the sun put on the horizon, so it sets on this eventide of their lives, never to come up again. And with their lives full of adversity and existence, today is the last twenty-four hours they will have got this much ahead of them. Whether there is only one twenty-four hours before death, or a great many decades, there is a bounds on being of all those men. Here they are, in a great World War, fighting to stop the being of other men. Their name calling may not be remembered, but what they make will forever change the course of the planet.

Daybreak. The soldiers battle to consciousness as they warm breakfast over scattered campfires. The morning time twilight have brought nil but chills. The eternal March began again. Every soldier have their ain lucky charm, or momento, or tangible piece of sentimentality. One soldiers transports a pendant given to him by his grandmother. To him it is a purpose, but to a scavenging German soldier, it is a little piece of net income from melted down silver. Another soldier transports around a image of his daughter, while another transports just the memories in his caput of his childhood house, secluded in a little town in the woods. But among these men, these marching soldiers battling for control over their lves as much as the adjacent man, there is one adult male -- Che -- who holds one thing prized above all: a love missive given to him by his lover. At least, she once was his lover, and she once swore all of her love just to him. Laura, a name so Godhead that lone the angels could talk it. Her legal tender legs, moist inside, passionate touch, lustfully in love and always sincere in her affection. These were the ideas racing through the head of Che, as he marched in the warfare parade across the streets which yielded no playful and careless children.

Laura, once the avowed lover of Che, but no more. For after this love missive he is holding in his hands, which was like fleeting touchings of her body, another missive came. The first missive spoke of devotedness and the 2nd of desertion. His four calendar months (now 6) of being in a foreign land was too much for her. Her first love missive was volumous, with imagination of physical affectionateness and love -- something any soldier would cherish from their lover. Physical love manifested within the words of our low English language. The words of the missive were etched into his heart, the manner two lovers claim a tree by marking the bark. He memorized every sentence, every syllable. But she left him. The initial daze was almost disbelief. Then, there was a nothingness in his purely militaristic existence. And while the existent Laura was away with another, she was dead to him. A once living beauty crumbled to pieces as he read the truth on achromatic paper. His head churned with the ingredients of misery, preparing the mixture of fate. Marching with a heavy head. He still kept the first love letter, to remind him of how happy he once was. And oh how he was indeed! In no other time of his life could he sincerely certify to so much comfortableness and love. Slowly through denial, anger, sympathy, he kept his love letter, and just as surely as he read her aged words of affection, she was reading another man's poetry. Two calendar months had passed since the breakup. He march, still in melody to Laura's love song, not with a heavy heart, but the beautiful past times lifting him in the air.

But it was this twenty-four hours that Che marched with the words of Laura in his hand, not looking, not thinking, but just visualizing her soft caress as her words looked at him. The dust of broken tools, destoryed buildings, or tatterdemalion clothes was subject to his worn, asleep feet, his arrested development not altering once. And whether it was by his ain carelessness or deficiency of concentration, he injure up where he was. He looked up, stopping in his paths and the words of the letter, and he saw German faces, with German-military helms and wearing German-military outfits. Holding his missive in his hand, his rifle slung, he saw one of the German soldiers raise his gun to shoot. Che asked one thousand questions: Bashes she love me still? Bashes she still believe about me? Bashes she cognize that I still love her? Bashes she cognize I kept her letters? What makes she believe about me? What makes she believe about me? What makes she believe about me? And then a blast lasting no more than than a microsecond, and he fell, the wind taking ownership of his letter. But as the cerulean skies turn a darker shade, and as his organic structure loses feeling, Che inquires if he should have got lived his last few hebdomads of being as he did.

Yes.

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For Life,

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