Short story that I wrote a while back about the many horrors of the medieval battlefield.
No Glamor In War
A war horn sounded in the distance, the signal that my squad was to attack the enemies left flank. We got up from our squatting positions and charged toward the battle ahead, giving our best battle cries. The battle had been going on for a couple hours and the soil was beginning to stain red with blood, at least the parts that were visible, for most places were littered with fallen warriors from both sides. I signed up for the military to protect my family and my country but I'd have joined the war anyway.
My entire life I had dreamed of being a knight, riding into battle in gleaming armor and sword on a pure white stallion. But the reality is, there is no glamor in war. No white stallions, or shining Armour. Just death and lots of it. There is no glamor in watching your comrades die and wonder if you're next to go.
This is what I realize as I appeared at the front of the battle, blood dripping from my sword and ragged clothes. All of this is going through my mind as my enemy plunged his sword straight through my chest.