Before You Start A War

Prologue

The small group of men sneak quietly through the thick woods, their footfalls sounding much louder in their heads. The tree bark is cold to the touch as Harry's hand grazes against it, his canteen of lukewarm water sloshing as he tries to find a comfortable place for his foot to rest as he takes another step.

Suddenly, from the back of the group, an older man calls out in a harsh voice, "Cover!"

All the soldiers drop to their stomachs, placing their heads as close to the ground as they can muster. A few men perch their guns up, aiming toward the source of the voice.

The men hide in silence, the wood surrounding them seeming too quiet to be normal. After a short period of time, the same man motions to the soldiers around him to stand again and continue to move. Eventually, the men up front get up as well, moving forward once again.

"Hey," one of the men next to Harry whispers. Harry turns his head, a serious look on his face. "do ya think he actually saw somethin'?" The man has a thick southern accent, a sweet twang that Harry has a negative connotation toward.

"I don't think he would joke around, if that's what you're asking. It's dangerous." Harry replies in a gruff voice, knowing he needs a drink but would rather save it just in case.

The man sniggers, "I think, sometimes, they like ta mess with us; get us all tense, ya know? I know I would if I was commander."

"Yeah, and I know why you're not." Harry mumbles, his eyes scanning in front of him again.

"What's that suppose'ta mean?" The man continues, and Harry has to force himself to not send the man a menacing look.

Harry sighs, "Nothing, mate. Get back to the task at hand, why don't you?"

The man seems as if he's going to speak again, but he's interrupted by the sound of a gunshot going off.

All the soldiers, once again, drop down to the ground. Everyone draws their guns however, a plethora of more gunshots go off before anyone could ready their rifle completely.

Harry's quick, packing his gun and aiming the best he could, pulling the trigger at a movement in front of him. A man wearing a gray jacket falls to the ground, yelling loud. He continues to yell as Harry packs his gun again, planning to kill him, but someone beats him too it.

The man beside him shot off a bullet, actively hitting the man in the chest. The body writhes, and his voice dims to a low grumble, before his body completely shuts down. His blood oozes from his two wounds, one to the chest and one to the left thigh, the red substance dribbling down the slope they were perched on. Harry watches on in fascination as he finishes packing his gun.

"Ya can take back your comment, then." Harry's ally speaks up after a few moments of silence, as the gunshots have seemingly stopped. "I'd make a damn great commander."

Harry can't help but laugh quietly, "Yeah, I guess you would. You really saved us there. Thanks for that."

"No problem. I jus' hope you'd return the favor if it ever came to it."

Harry goes to speak, but three more gunshots surprise him into silence. He aims his gun in front of him, as does his ally, but the two end up shooting into the air as their rifles are pulled upward from behind simultaneously. The two turn onto their backs, facing two other soldiers in gray jackets. With their guns rendered useless and ripped from their grips, Harry's ally immediately begins to reach into his pocket for a small pocket knife that they were supplied with.

However, he doesn't get very far as a soldier across from them, leaning against a tree, pulls the trigger to his own gun and hits the man in the shoulder. Harry's ally lets out a cry, his arm going limp.

"So close, James." The man gripping Harry's gun in one hand and both of Harry's wrists in the other calls out.

"I won't miss next time." The man against the tree, James, speaks carelessly as he packs his rifle once again. Once finished, he takes his aim. "Don't try any more funny business, got it?"

Harry's ally nods quickly, his arm bleeding.

"Good. Tie 'em up." James steps closer to the four, as the one holding Harry's arms and gun throws the weapon to the ground, producing a small spool of rope from one of his pockets. The man holding his friend's hands does the same, tying his wrists together rather quickly.

The two are tied and allowed to stand on their own, James still holding his gun up to shoot at any moment just in case they decide to run. Harry moves his hands slightly, the rough rope chafing against his wrists, causing him to grit his teeth.

"Move," One of the men yells, pushing the bayonet of his gun into Harry's back harshly, but not enough to cut into his skin, or even break the seams of his jacket. The two begin walking simultaneously.

There are still gunshots going off around them. Harry can only imagine the amount of soldiers that have lost their lives to the enemy's harsh plan. Harry can only wonder how many people tried what his friend did and were hit somewhere fatal.

The two are marched out of the forest, their eyes staring straight ahead in case their captors do not want them to look around, to not see the bloodshed surrounding them. Harry wouldn't want to look anyway. When they reach a small clearing, Harry finds a group of twelve more allies, all bound similarly to them, and an even larger amount of enemies, all with their guns drawn, loaded, and aimed at the small circle of blue-coated soldiers. A few have injuries, one is limping, and another drops to the ground right as Harry and his friend are added to the circle.

Most of the enemy's guns go to aim at the man's head, but one of Harry's own captors goes over and pokes the body with his bayonet harshly. The man doesn't even twitch. He then leans down and feels around on the man's chest.

"He's dead." He calls out, and all the enemy's guns return to the big group of men. James and the two captors join around them, forming a circle of glaring eyes and loaded rifles.

After a few more minutes and ten more men being added to the group, the men surrounding them begin to march in unison, maintaining a formation to keep the group boxed in. The group of twenty-three men move along clumsily, a couple tripping over the corpse that was left in the clearing. The circle of enemies accounts for the corpse as they step over it, and Harry can only feel bad for the man, whom he will never learn the name of, since none of them were brave enough to check him for anything while all the guns were pointed at them.

He hopes somebody will find his body soon, so his family can be notified of his death. He hopes they believed he fought valiantly before we went. He hopes his own family would think the same if he were to ever die on the battlefield.

He hopes this march isn't leading toward his death.