He’s collapsed on the ground. Tears stream down his filthy face as he blinks away the swirling grit from his eyes. One ear rings where his helmet was struck. His reeling mind thinks he is in his bed, which is where he’d rather be, not on a battlefield. He staggers to his knees, almost knocked to the floor again by the men charging past to plug holes in the line. Arrows rain down into the mass from his side and theirs, not discriminating between friends and foe. He grasps for his spear. His visor was knocked up. He slams it down.
Paddy Dobson
11th November 2022