Thrice

For three years the war had ravaged Europe. The major powers of this world contended with each other, whether it was over land or money or power was beyond Simeon. Some view war as a game. Others choose to make a joke of it because they don’t know how else to deal with something so heavy. Others remain silent. The reality is wars are not fought on the field but in smoke-filled rooms.

Only to those pushing figurines on a map is war glorious. Simeon could not figure out what battles prove; only that one country was advantaged in technology or men. Perhaps life outside of war was futile as well. He and his brother, Ebenezer, were fighting for their glorious king, George III. Patriotism was nonsense to Simeon’s mindset no matter how his officers tried to beat it into him. He was an excellent marksman and that prevented the worst punishments. Unlike most men that fired with a musket, Simeon was able to hit a target eight out of ten times at fifty paces.

Simeon couldn’t recall the name of the town they were closest to. In 1759 he had been conscripted. Since then he had been on the mainland and in enemy territory. The people spoke different languages, but they all sounded similar in how little they sounded like English.

Ebenezer stood up towards the front of the line, digging trenches, making it easier to hold his ground. Off in the distance a gray mob of exhausted soldiers made their way to fight Simeon’s company. Although they still breathed, their hearts were dead. Minutes before, a downpour had soaked most of the men, though now sun shone brightly. Thick steam rose from the ground, flowing downhill towards the enemy company. An enemy archer let loose an arrow; the missile pierced the ground barely a stone’s throw from Simeon’s feet.

“Hell,” Simeon’s fellow marksman growled.

“Ready! Arms!” His commander shouted, “Davenport! Richardson! Bosworth! Kill the archers before they’re in accurate range.”

“Aye!” Was their practiced response.

Simeon took slightly longer to aim than the other three but was often rewarded for his time. As many as he shot, so many targets presented themselves. They seemed to be coming from within the trees. He knew where his brother ought to be but wasn’t entirely sure. The battle progressed quickly into frenzy. Ebenezer turned sideways, his profile obvious to Simeon who was desperately searching for it. Just after, the line broke, Spaniards rushed through the break. The men beside Ebenezer fell. Simeon aimed for a man just to the left of Ebenezer–

Although he had already stuck his pike into the ground there were still so many soldiers, even on foot. Ebenezer hadn’t expected so many soldiers. His superiors hadn’t either. Although technically the Brits were leagues ahead in skill, there were so many Spaniards. Bones crushed underneath his pole-ax.

The worst part was not swinging down death blows or even pulling them out (though that was much more difficult than swinging down). Worse than either of these actions was seeing his enemy’s faces. Only chance dictated which side he was on, which side they were on. In every man he killed he saw himself. A family breaking. A child becoming fatherless. A wife becoming a widow.

Then it broke. The perfect line of soldiers fell apart. Abner, the soldier to the left of him he turned just in time to block an attack. Suddenly, an excruciating pain from behind radiated from his back. Blackness. He fell down on his knees, confused, dying face down in the mud.