The Warrior's Dark Dream

On the battlefield, an hour of sleep yields a lifetime of dark dreams.

But we remain free. We sit and consider days gone by, when this was a peaceful place. We study every detail of creased snapshots of parents, children, and lovers, to convince ourselves we shall see them again. We remind each other why we stand and fight.

“We are free.”

“God is with us.”

“Our cause is just.”

The narrow streets where we played as children have been turned to dust. Strong brick walls have been reduced to broken stones. Sites of honor have been made into mass graves. Hospitals have been bombed. Churches have been burned. Schools have been demolished.

Our ancestors settled this sacred land, and it returned the favor. Our people and this place became one. Here, we have suffered hard winters, faced heartless tyrants, and battled marching legions. The rich soil has been fertilized by the blood of mythic heroes and fallen foes alike.

Statues of the valiant stand in every town square. Plaques with the names of the celebrated dead adorn walls of every city hall. Even if these monuments are also destroyed, the memories of the people and stories of their deeds shall survive forever.

So, we offer our lives to be inscribed on future memorials, for the next generation to read and revere.

***

A thin arc divides the sky.

The giants, far away and faceless, toss their spears like drunken Olympians heaving javelins into the crowd. The setting, like the surface of some alien world, is strangely beautiful yet truly terrifying.

The colors are from the palette of a mad painter, midnight blue fading to the dark red and umber of dawn. Where shells strike, there is fire-- gold and bright, showering sparks like misguided Roman candles. The choking smoke is black and grey, like rising specters.

The smells can not be adequately described: burning bodies, putrid and charred; despair; and death. The hunger and the heat, the thirst and sweat, threaten to break our grasp on sanity. Packs of feral dogs run loose, driven to devour their dead masters.

The sounds are discordant, like satanic jazz: eerie quiet punctuated by spasms of gunfire, followed by moments of earth-shaking hell. A shrill whistle, a loud thud, the distant rumble of the drunken giants’ footsteps. A companion estimates the distance, between the words of a vague prayer he whispers without pause.

“God is with us.”

But God is not here; unless this place is the truest proof of His existence.

Then there’s the screaming, growing ever closer. Hardened men shout and cry, witnessing horrors and gore. Women banshee-wail when they see loved ones lost or torn to pieces. Children weep, unable to breathe, traumas forever etched on their tender souls.

The silences are otherworldly, like a grand orchestra resting after an intense crescendo, when even the birds and insects cease their songs. Goliath is approaching, inebriated and angry; and yet we stand and wait, fighting our panic and the urge to run.

“Our cause is just.”

They can take our bodies, but not our souls. They can have our blood, but not our obedience. Even our mangled corpses will resist the power of the heartless tyrant.

Because we are free. We are free. We are free.

We remain-- fearless, unvanquished, and unwilling to relinquish one centimeter of the land on which we live. If we survive, we shall raise our glasses and sing anthems of liberty and victory. If we die, our spirits shall inspire the struggles of free people everywhere.

We are free. We are free. Dead or alive, we are free!