Chapter 2: The March to the Front

The road from rural Georgia to the front lines was a grueling, endless blur—days bleeding together until you forgot what home even smelled like. Dust clouds rolled off the blacktop, and the sticky southern heat pressed down on you, day after day. Eighty-seven kids and men started out with you, faces sharp with fear or dulled by resignation. By the time you saw the front lines, only twelve of you were left. The others—well, you didn’t talk about the others. Their names faded with the miles, swallowed by the road and the relentless, muggy air. Every empty space in the line felt like a ghost tugging at your sleeve.

You made it—barely. There was a big guy, shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. He stood a head taller than anyone else, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon like he could see something better out there. He stuck out from the others, carrying himself different, like maybe he’d seen more of the world. He told you he’d been to college, even volunteered for the army. Folks whispered, why the hell was he chained up like the rest of you? But nobody dared ask out loud.

The officer tried to pull him aside, wanted to make him a clerk. Offered him an easier job—one that didn’t involve being chained to the rest of you. But the big guy stood his ground. “No, sir,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re brothers now. Live together, die together. Either I’m chained up with them, or I go nowhere.” There was a hush after that—like he’d said something sacred.

The officer spat on the ground and cursed, but he gave in. The big guy got chained right back with the rest of you. Even so, every time food rations came around, he worked some quiet magic—always got his hands on an extra sandwich. Peanut butter, sometimes ham and cheese if you were lucky.

He always handed the extra sandwich to you. “You remind me of my little brother,” he’d say, smiling just a little, like he was remembering something good from long ago. His hands were rough, but the way he offered the food was gentle. You almost forgot you were chained, just for a second.

He told you about his little brother—just five years old when it happened. A sweet kid, full of questions and always running a little too fast for his own good. One day, racing through downtown Atlanta, a foreign diplomat’s shiny black car took a corner too quick and… well, that was that. His voice cracked, just once, and he looked away, jaw clenched tight.

You didn’t totally get what he meant—the world he came from felt miles away from yours—but you understood one thing: that sandwich was the best thing you’d tasted in weeks. The bread was fresh, and each bite felt like hope, real and warm in your empty stomach.