As soon as the sun rises and shines it’s still sleepy rays they gather, one after another. Gathering like two armies would on opposing sides, ready to fight to the death for their country, a battle to be spoken of in legends many centuries later. But there is no battle to come. No war. No legends nor stories.
Because dead-beat men tell no tales.
These warriors fought no battle but they celebrate a won war which never existed. Drinking from sunrise to sunset, each in their designated spot in the trench. They hold their ground no matter how many shots their body has taken. No matter how many times they’ve seen their comrades fall, they laugh in the face of fear, friend, or foe. Laugh at every wound on their body, at every despairing loss of their valuable ammunition. They struggle restlessly to make the best use of their expensive resources.
And once the sun sets, and night engulfs the hills, the laughter dies out with the light. The dead-beat men exit their trenches and head home to their loyal wives, only to be greeted by an empty house, a hard floor and sound sleep. And once they wake they won’t remember a tale worthy of speaking of, and will only be left to head back to the trench.
To fight a battle to tell of later.