The Journal of a Soldier

- A forum for writers. Poetry in all its forms, short stories, long stories, novels and everything in between welcomed.

The Journal of a Soldier

Postby GoldWyvern » Fri Mar 09, 2007 4:35 am

Journal of a Pikeman - Day One
April 6th, 1601

This morning, I was roused from a rather sound sleep by two rather rude gentlemen. They wore military uniforms, black with silver trim, and barked orders at me as if I was one of their subordinates. I didn't take too kindly to that, but I could hardly do anything about it. They had swords, and I, well, had only my under clothing to defend me.

Asking questions produced little more then a grunt from them. I was marched out the door and through the city, and after a while I came to a rather aged stone building and was dragged up two flights of stairs, where I met a rather plump fellow who I found was named Commander Taric.

He was more willing to field my queries, through his replies were sarcastic and dripped from his mouth with the contempt of cast off spittle. I asked of him what I was doing before him, and he in turn produced a worn logbook. Within, I found my name written, in rather awkward script as if made by one who knew only how to write his name, nothing more. It was dated in different script a month before, and it was this the pudgy finger of Commander Taric pointed at.

"You were supposed to report a week after signing up." Is what he said, and he was obviously a master of magic. How else could one explain how he seemed furious yet bored and disinterested all at the same time?

Obviously, I was a bit confused. "Me, sir?"

This didn't help me any. He said 'yes!', I repeated 'me?' a few times, and we went back and forth a bit till I guessed the Commander was of less then average intelligence. It was at this point, too, I became more frightened at my circumstance. This war we were fighting, had been fighting for uncounted years, did not produce many heroes. It only produced the dead, and I was not anxious to join their ranks.

"Why," I asked, "Would a man of forty-seven turns with no experience with his sword hand, choose to enlist in the military? What purpose would I serve?" I questioned him with what I thought was a sound argument. He produced a better one, at least in his opinion.

"No idea." He said, stabbing my supposed signature with his finger once more, "But your name is there, and so, you are here. You're to be a pikeman."

With this, another soldier pressed into my hands a rather lengthy pole tipped with a spear. I assumed it was a pike, but I had never actually seen one up close before. It was about eight feet tall and looked menacing.

For just a moment, I thought 'ah ha! A weapon! How foolish of them to give me one!' and then, I considered that the men here probably knew a lot more about how to make men stop breathing then I did, and it was probably not wise for me to provoke them into to showing me how good they were at it.

I argued a bit more, of course, since the signature within the book was obviously not mine, and I had not chosen this life. Obviously it was to no avail since I write to this journal from here, a barracks somewhere in the city, awaiting my training.

Already I miss home.
Facts are meaningless. You can use facts to prove anything that’s even remotely true.
-Homer Simpson
User avatar
Posts: 1442
Joined: Wed Sep 25, 2002 5:00 pm
Location: Deus Ex Machina

Return to Writers Corner

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users