The Follies of Youth

We often discussed it, me and Winston. We were neither one afraid to die. Nay, we welcomed it, dreamt of it in fact. Death could not bother me a whit, especially not if it were to abandon my bones upon some hallowed field of honor, destining them to be memorialized by history. There is nothing in a boy’s mind which can outdo a valiant battlefield death, and these were Winston’s and my thoughts as our regiment began its first, cautious steps forward.

And as our flag bearer gentled his probe out onto the contested field a “whoop” sounded from somewhere down the line which was quickly picked up nearby until ’Ol Winston whooped of his own right, surprising even himself I think, for he turned to me with an astoundingly joyful smile which spurred our slow marching pace to a trot, and finally a gallop. The race was on then, heedless of any order as us boys set out to claim the cherished title of “First to Cross”.

A lovely day it was, the skies crystalline above with tall, soft grasses cushioning our steps below. Dismissing the real contest, our game became a sprint towards the alluring flags of our formerly alluring country, flags which beckoned us in on warm, gentle breezes. We ran as though drunk, Winston and I; light-hearted and light-headed, giddy with joy at having achieved our moment. It became our own race then, Winston and I outpacing the others, our untried rifles clutched close, the muscular machinations of youth proving superior in our eagerness, our freely pounding hearts having transferred completely over from our mothers’ worried yokes into the calloused hands of the sergeant-major to protect as he would. My God, but it was lovely… right up until