[Vignettes] The dread of things to come.

[JustSomeGuy]

You're in the trenches, and not in some politician's war. You're here because if you don't fight, perhaps to the death, then innocent people will suffer. The war has been quiet so far. Shots are only heard from a distance, but the front is slowly catching up to your unit's emplacement. At night, your unit listens to the sounds coming from an old tin radio. You play cards together and wax poetic on how none of this would be necessary if there wasn't evil in the world. You like each other. None of you want to see the others hurt.

The Shark, the nickname your commander is stuck with, has spent the evening with a steely face. He is concerned but he doesn't want to show it. After a pathetic dinner, he turns down the radio and informs everyone that the time for waiting has come to an end. There will be regular gunfire by this time tomorrow. The Machine Guns will be red with heat. Soon, the enemy will storm these trenches like they have stormed so many others. They are unskilled, but their guns still work. They don't have to be engineers to throw a grenade. He says he is doing everything he can to ensure victory and is working on a plan to see as many of you unharmed as possible. He sounds confident... he has long since earned his nickname. Unspoken is his admission that even with the best of plans, some of you will be harmed. Some of you will not be eating dinner tomorrow.

Tonight, the trench will be Somber.

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A child custody fight is soon, so I did a little therapeutic writing. Warfare seems as good an allegory as any.