*In the depths of the human experience, the specter of war casts a shadow that looms over us all. It is a relentless specter that some confront head-on, while others consign it to the periphery of their consciousness. Whether one stands on the precipice of battle or resides far from its visceral horrors, the concept of war is an omnipresent entity, a force that has the power to halt the most resolute minds and elicit an unending cry from the very core of humanity.
In a sprawling expanse of grass, amidst a gathering of men and women, anticipation coursed through the air like a storm gathering on the horizon. Here, the mindless but fair corporal held court with his cup of strong English tea and a Scottish shortbread. His intention was not to incite an uproar, but rather to infuse his troops with the encouragement and motivation needed for the final push. For they were wanderers of the battlefield, their boots free from thorns, their attire pristine and crisp. Youthful faces, once untouched by the weight of the world, now bore the intricate lines of pain, yet exuded a quiet confidence. They possessed a readiness, a constant eagerness that masked the brutal reality that lay ahead.
Among them stood Gregory, a stocky figure with a cap reminiscent of the headgear donned by rap artists. He was a source of discomfort for the commander, whose disdain for him was palpable. At times, the commander would dismiss him with a simple utterance of "Busta," a moniker he had coined for Gregory. Yet, in other moments, he engaged in protracted conversations, like a dance of ambiguity. "It's been so long since I've seen a woman with my own eyes," the corporal remarked to Gregory, a statement that hung in the air, fraught with unspoken implications.
The commander wrestled with his response, keenly aware of the delicate balance he must maintain. Every word he uttered could be dissected, misinterpreted, or weaponized against him in the unforgiving theatre of war. "I understand," he finally replied, choosing his words with care. "But our focus must remain on what lies before us, on our mission and the path to success." It was a response couched in professionalism, a veneer to protect himself from the churning emotions that threatened to engulf him.
Gregory's departure left the commander contemplating the enigma that was his own role in this intricate web of emotions. "They just don't think of war," he muttered to himself, realizing that these young soldiers, driven by primal instincts, sought pleasure and not the grim reality of conflict.
The following day brought a commotion that pierced the fragile tranquility of the camp. The commander rushed from his hut, drawn toward the clamor emanating from the building where Gregory resided. A throng of people had gathered, their expressions ranging from disbelief to grief. The commander fought his way through the crowd, desperate to understand the cause of this unrest among his troops.
There, on the floor, lay Gregory's lifeless body, devoid of any visible injuries. A hushed realization swept through the onlookers, their eyes fixed on the commander. His towering presence conveyed a profound sense of stillness, a silence that spoke volumes. Murmurs and whispers cascaded through the crowd as they watched the commander's reaction, waiting for the inevitable display of grief.
But the commander surprised them all. He simply stared at the lifeless form before him, his countenance a mask of tranquil contemplation. It was as though he had glimpsed something beyond the mortal realm, an understanding that transcended the confines of words.
As the crowd watched, youngsters began whispering to one another, speculating on the commander's stoic demeanor. Yet, he remained impervious to their murmurs, his gaze locked on Gregory's form. The world around him seemed to fade into insignificance.
Moments later, another commotion echoed from a nearby hut. The onlookers dispersed, like startled trout seeking refuge in a turbulent stream. Another lifeless body lay on the floor, a poignant note pinned to its chest. "I have been condemned to die young," it read. "I'd rather die in my country than in a faraway land. Sorry, Mum." and the other camps reported more deaths, more casualties most of the night.
The shock of these events left the commander in a state of profound uncertainty. What were the protocols for such a harrowing situation? How could he possibly navigate this uncharted territory?
Returning to the base, he realized that during his conversation with Gregory the day before, the door to his office had been left ajar. Someone had entered, perused the executive order detailing the time, date, and location of the impending battle—knowledge that had driven some to take their own lives. These young soldiers had never truly contemplated the horrors of war; it had remained an abstract concept, a distant specter. Now, it had become an unbearable reality.
As night fell, the commander penned a letter to the Infantry Command, relinquishing his command and confessing the turmoil within his soul. In his final moments, he fastened a rope around his neck, a tragic testament to the weight of his responsibilities.
Meanwhile, in the barracks of the other twenty-five units, laughter erupted as pranksters reveled in their successful jest. They saw themselves as the true jesters of the pre-battlefield season, oblivious to the anguish that had befallen their decent and resolute commander, Commander Harris. In the face of this tragedy, one question lingered in the air, haunting all who witnessed it: Do they ever truly think of war?
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