“Have you sharpened that blade already, soldier?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then leave it alone.”
The lad nodded. Eyes full of fear.
Ten new recruits crammed into the tent. All of them no more than boys.
War taking its toll once more.
Yet Grimbauld had no kind words.
Despite seeing too few, tomorrow would be the last sunrise for many of them.
Mothers would mourn lost sons and curse his name.
The thought weighed heavily on the general.
Saluting, he stepped out into the night.
Hundreds of tents huddled across the field.
With grim purpose, he moved to the next one.
“Soldiers ….”
So, a special thanks again to for his prompt to write a 100 word story on the word “Tent” : -
This was one of those stories where, in my minds eye, I immediately pictured a field covered in tents filled with young men who weren’t on a camping trip like they should have been but, instead, are marching to war and, most likely, their death. From there, I imagined even someone as world wise and experienced as Grimbauld being overwhelmed, but still wanting to look them in the eye and show he would be by their side no matter their fate.
I can’t remember the expression exactly but it’s something like, “Old men make war. Young men fight and die.”
Never mind a fantasy story, in real life, that always seems to hold true.
Anyway, it’s getting late so I’ll leave it there.
Hope you enjoyed the story.
Thanks for reading. Until next time.
Behind the jeweled "glory" of every battle throughout history are those irreplaceable human facets, that precious human toll, ornamented with blood & lost tomorrows - that permanent plundering, forever marring the brilliance of our fellow man.
Thank you, Dan.
The night before the battle, great vignette, captures it so well. I still think we need "The Chronicles of Grimbauld" or something ;)