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Rated: E · Prose · War · #2156661
A corps is marching among the trees, with confidence, yet to be agitated by war.
Sound of blackbirds, blending with that of frogs, creates an appalling accord. Woods, confused about their choice of color, form a considerably more tolerable harmony. Fauna of the valley is mostly hidden under the trees, irresponsive to outside world, but attentive to the newcomers.

A corps is marching among the trees, with all their glory, confidence, and honor, yet to be agitated by war. Passing through the forest, they are approaching their new post. As they are advancing, they pay little care to not disturb the forest. Perhaps reasonably, as this deed pales under the comparison with the disturbance waiting for them. Among the bushes.

Pressing his gun to his shoulder, a soldier is waiting, eager and anxious. Time flows, with no sign of delay, no hope of halting. A dirty and bruised photo of his wife in his pocket remains his only consolation. The moment draws near, straining power of the photo, and raising its possessor's apprehension to a climax.

His 3 comrades align with him on the frontier. To the opposite side, to left and to right, the ambush reaches out, giving hope to the organizers, and yet no signs to the incoming participants.

Orders have long been given, understood, envisaged. Weapons are ready, positions are occupied, minds are set. Bloodshed is in the making.

The calm before the storm, only to be discovered after it, is dawning upon the narrow path. It is gripping the marching foots, entangling the thinking minds. Sunlight is swelling as they are approaching the exit. So is the hope, meant to be replaced with joy.

A wood cracks. Signal is blown. Shots are fired. First bodies are on the floor. Rest lay down in panic, fury, dedication. Dedication to not die.The battle ensues with all its renowned horrors: Blood, distorted limbs, blood, pain, blood, death...
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