Chapter 4: Baptism by Gunfire

When you finally saw combat, you were assigned to a company commander—a hard man with eyes like slate. Of the twelve who made it, six bolted before the sun set. Three didn’t get far. You watched, stomach twisted into knots, as they were lined up and shot right there in front of everyone. The gunshots echoed across the field, crows scattering from the treeline, and you pressed your fist to your mouth to keep from screaming. The lesson was clear: there was no running from this.

You didn’t run. Not because you weren’t scared—you were terrified—but because the big guy didn’t run either. You stuck close, gripping your bayonet until your knuckles turned white. The fear in your gut twisted tighter, but you wouldn’t leave him.

You said, “Brother, I never made it to school, but folks back home always told stories about heroes—George Washington and his men. From now on, you be George, and I’ll be your right-hand man. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, hoping he wouldn’t laugh at you. You tried to sound braver than you felt, voice cracking with hope and desperation.

He stared at you, stunned, his eyes glistening. For a second, you thought he might laugh, but then the corners of his eyes turned red. He ruffled your hair, then punched you in the shoulder—hard enough to make you wince. “Idiot,” he muttered, but there was pride in his voice.

He always carried a Springfield rifle, polishing it until it gleamed, even when there wasn’t much light to spare. The routine calmed him, and you watched, learning every move.

You only had a bayonet. The blade seemed taller than you, and heavier every day, but you hung onto it, refusing to let go. It felt like the only thing between you and oblivion.

He’d talk to you about family and country, about what mattered most, about the kind of men you could become if you just kept going. Sometimes, he’d talk late into the night, voice low so only you could hear, spinning stories of home and hope in a world gone mad. But every time the gunfire started up again, you wondered if hope was just another story—one you’d have to write for yourself.