Battle

Rising tension swells the armies, pushing them out onto the field. Days pass and nights pass, marching endlessly on and on alongside the feet of thousands. Rivers are forded, bogs slowly pushed through until, Christ, they meet, staring across a no-man’s-land that no one had seen before, or since.

They square up, generals and their lieutenants riding proudly up and down the lines on their horses or in their tanks, drawing and sheathing swords at regular intervals as they shout at one another across the silent wasteland between them.

Then, the troops ready, arms raised to take as many of the enemy into their deadly embrace before they fall themselves, proud in the knowledge that their duty has been served. Then generals stop at the edge of the lines and dismount from both tank and steed, raising their swords one last time. Soldiers brace themselves. The swords drop to the ground. Troops charge.

Chaos, the sound of thunder comes now from the feet of so many, nearing and nearing until… they meet. Two storms become one, crashing together to become a hurricane of twisting arms and legs, each looking for any grip, any hold they can find on each other.

The noise lasts barely a minute before silence falls again over the field.

 

 

 

Then, they all start laughing. The generals walk along, shaking hands and marking down who’s troops were hugging who’s. The losers will have to buy each of the winning soldiers a jammy dodger, and a ticket home on the nearest train.