Flag

"We view flags with special reverence because they have historically served as symbols of the collective identity of those who fight under them, symbols proudly carried into battle at the forefront of attacking forces and waved to rally troops in disarray or retreat. The colors of a Civil War regiment embodied its honor, and the men chosen to bear them made up an elite. The post of flagbearer was deemed an appointment of great honor, and those who trooped regimental and national flags into battle were especially brave, for colors "drew lead like a magnet." A fallen bearer's banner would quickly be taken up by a fellow soldier, and many men willingly exposed themselves to enemy fire (often at the cost of their lives) rather than allow their regiments to suffer the dishonor of allowing their flags to touch the ground. Yet it was not the flag itself that was important so much as what it symbolized: that so long as the banner waved, at least one man from that regiment lived on, and thus the regiment itself continued to exist."


Flag
February 11, 2007


Bullets flayed the air around the soldiers as they dug themselves into the trench. The situation was hopeless. At least a hundred enemy soldiers, versus a small regiment caught by surprise. The base was captured, the enemy were ready and armed, and worst of all, the flag had fallen, signifying defeat and dishonor.

The soldiers contemplated their options. There weren't many. Die now in a last stand, or die later, slaughtered like pigs in a hole. There was an unspoken code between the soldiers in the trench. Die with honor, or die with shame.

"Jackson!" Private Tare cried, "Over the top!"

The remaining twenty-three soldiers all leapt over the edge of the furrow. The sound of explosive rounds filled the air. Ammunition instantly tore into a soldier, and he fell facedown into the dirt. Jackson screamed as a bullet clipped his helmet, luckily deflected by the plating. Clouds of dust flew into the air as the enemy traced long gouges into the earth. The sound was immense, tremendous, incredible.

The ground shook and splintered as the lead rounds pounded away, seeking the warm home of a human body. Private Birch fell as he was pummeled with metal slugs, and a group of soldiers dropped like screaming flies as a hand grenade made its arcing path to their position, going off with an enormous snap.

"Hold men! Hold the line! Don't let -" The incoming command was cut off by a violent scream as the chittering of bullets rained down on the officer. "AHGGGG!"

Men dropped as the metal pellets came racing like a storm from hell. The smell of gunpowder mingled with blood filled the air as dirt ploughed up in their faces. The men kept running, falling, dying.

Sweat dripped from Jackson's forehead as he reached the flag first. The fabric was torn, smeared with mud and dirt, pocked with bulletholes. With a groan, he pulled up with both arms. The enemy turned their sights on him, and a stray round clinked off his helmet as he ducked down low.

Soon, Tare and Slim joined him, screaming as they struggled to lift the heavy weight. Ammunition continued to storm around them, as more soldiers joined the effort. Enemy tracers found them, ripping soldiers with lead slugs, the flag dipping and swaying, only to be stopped by the stiff hands of the dead. The treeline offered minimal cover, as soldiers fell, and more came up, like waves lapping on a shore.

"AGHHHH!" James screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. Private Stax was killed instantly, not a moment to scream, as rounds punched through his neck, shaking him like a rag doll before he slumped into the dirt. The heavy flag swayed once again, before Tare propped it up with his body, covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Screams filled the air, as soldiers died without a chance to gasp.

Whistling filled the air as a sniper fired a round straight through Jackson's helmet, leaving a neat hole leaking blood. He fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, as Tare sobbed, trying to dig the base of the flagpole into the muddy ground. Xavier put his weight into it, until the back of his uniform flew open as his chest exploded, a slug punching through his heart.

Soon, only 2 soldiers remained. Then a sharp crack, and only Tare was left, crouching, crying, covered in filth and blood and sweat, hanging onto the thin metal flagpole like a child to its mother. He looked up. The flag stood straight and tall, flapping in the wind; beaten, torn, defiled and broken... but still standing. He gave a tearful salute.

Then he was blown away in the next hailstorm of metal.