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Once upon a time, I dreamed regularly of war. I was a soldier. Sometimes I died in these dreams. Sometimes I took part in atrocities. Sometimes I was a hero. But I haven't dreamed of war in years, at least, not until the night before last. The dream wasn't detailed. A convoy traveled along a railway line in a narrow valley, driving trucks and armoured cars and such. But the enemy had set up blocks along the valley which could not be passed with the vehicles. The enemy thought this would stop them.
It did not.
Their vehicles useless, the soldiers began to march. The tromping of their feet made the ground shake, and they marched onward, despite the artillery being fired upon them. They did not take cover. They marched on implacably, stepping over the bodies of their fallen. The smells of blood, dirt, shit, and cordite filled the air.
The enemy were astonished at the tenacity of the soldiers. Some laughed at their foolishness. Some were awed by their bravery.
And then I woke up.
It did not.
Their vehicles useless, the soldiers began to march. The tromping of their feet made the ground shake, and they marched onward, despite the artillery being fired upon them. They did not take cover. They marched on implacably, stepping over the bodies of their fallen. The smells of blood, dirt, shit, and cordite filled the air.
The enemy were astonished at the tenacity of the soldiers. Some laughed at their foolishness. Some were awed by their bravery.
And then I woke up.
