Daily Flash Fiction Challenge

The thickly coated grass of the field held onto the victims of the battle-worn countryside. Littered with the men who would not go home that day. That would be the last and most decisive battle of the war. It was now over. The Generals were working on the agreements of the armistice and arrangements were being made for them to meet. At what cost would the victor see their claim?

So loud were the volleys of cannon and gunfire. The ground shuttered from the relentless pounding. Some of the troops shouted and rallied while others let out groans of agony from being fired upon. But as the dust settled with the sun, where there once was a deafening sound of battle suddenly was now an eerie silence throughout the land. The air was dead, the men were dead, the field was breathless.

Rolling the wagons down the Princetown Pike the remaining soldiers, horses and artillery marched loosely en route to their encampment, too tired and spent to celebrate their victory. A numbness took them over, not from battle but from the finality of never having to fight again. Notified of their win, they realized that the life they lived as soldiers and comrades was now over. The Platoon Commander turned to face the men, as they gathered their gear, cleared his throat, and addressed them. Men the way of soldiering we lived and the battles we have so bravely fought are now over. Pray for the dead, the wounded, and gather your gear. Say farewell to your brothers as you are free to return to your families. It's time to go home.