The photo at left made me want to tell a story:
At dawn, in the narrow, damp confines of the trench, they waited. Some crouched on the fire step, some stood erect on the duckboards with one leg propped, leaning forward on their thighs. Others sat—or lay—in crumpled heaps. Some smoked, some scribbled hastily in grimy notebooks; one man cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. The lieutenant stared at his watch, a whistle clutched in his right hand.
Mud-caked, mud crusted, they waited there, with damp crotches and wet feet, stealing furtive glances at each other. At last, the lieutenant tensed, put whistle to lips…
The men nearest the lieutenant saw this, and rose if they were sitting. Like commuters on a train as it nears its destination, a wave of preparation rippled down the trench. Men gathered rifles, helmets, cleared throats, patted pockets.
The whistle blew.
well told & inspiring. outside the picture, others are dying in drones. but other things happen too: babies are born, some to these men.
Post a Comment