The sky is still dark, the fog floating below the hills as if all the souls of the dead soldiers were gathering to continue their fight, as if they refused their death. We are awakened by the cries of the officers and the trumpets. We must hurry, the enemy is already in position, we will have to fight on an empty stomach. Orders fly, loud, hurried, but our lieutenant is too far away for his cries to reach our lines. His orders are relayed by the non-commissioned officers, we take position like puppets, tightly packed together. We know what we have to do, the carnage is about to begin, we are going to taste this insipid and poisoned dish again.

  Once all in formation, we wait. The noise of silence is deafening. This silence crushes us and makes us feel tiny. Grains of dust that will come to settle at the bottom of the valley to join those who have already fallen. It is only broken by throat clearings and prayers. Prayers to be able to see the sun set again, for those who will fall by our sides and for this endless war to stop.

  And suddenly we see them, our eyes fix painfully on them, their silhouettes standing out against the rising sun. To add insult to our position as a straw in this torrent that is about to overflow, the sun blinds us but we cannot take our eyes off these silhouettes. The enemy troops advance slowly as if to torture us before tearing us apart.

  Then a war cry from their ranks makes us tremble, and they advance to the rhythm of the drums like puppets too. There is no heroism in their gestures, no rage in their eyes. They are exhausted, tired of the war, just like us. They are there, like us, fighting for reasons they no longer understand.

  We receive the order not to move. When we can finally distinguish, through this rising sun, their faces, our archers strike. A rain of arrows falls on them, and pins them to the ground. The enemy soldiers fall one after the other but they advance too proud or too desperate to give in. The blood begins to perfume the battlefield, the air is heavy with this heavy scent of war, of iron and blood.

  Then, our cavalry comes out as fast as death, crushing all these bodies in its path. The riders cut through the air with an incredible power, their sabers glinting in the light of dawn. A tidal wave engulfing the infantry. The impact is brutal, relentless. Their ranks are destabilized, their lines are broken. I am glad not to be on the enemy's side.

  Finally, our trumpets sound the order to advance is given. Without a word we start moving, like an army of puppets. Our minds focused on one thing: survive until the evening. Each step is a promise towards death, I hope it will not keep it. When we reach the enemy line, fear, disarray and demotivation can be read on their faces, in their eyes. They were awakened too early, too early for this massacre, too early to die.

  The first contacts are brutal. There is no resistance, our line crushes them, they do not seem like the same men as the day before yesterday. A sword stroke, an enemy soldier falls without a sigh. We advance like the tide on the beach, swallowing everything in our path. I feel like the heroes in children's tales, the one who defeats the enemy without the slightest scratch. They will not hold out for long, I know. Their resistance is broken. Their ranks are melting like snow in the sun. We advance, again and again, until there is nothing left but shadows on the ground, inert bodies, faces frozen in the earth. The wind carries the smell of their defeat.

  I cut, I strike, my arms respond to my orders without me really thinking about it. The gestures have become automatic, as if my body had ceased to belong to me. The generals' strategy has done its work. The enemy is exhausted, broken, and the slightest resistance seems to be nothing more than a last surge before succumbing under the pressure. Each blow seems to drive in a little more the nail of the last flicker of their hopes.

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  I no longer remember the number of men I have killed. Their faces blend into a sea of pain, terror, and blood. I no longer count. The very idea of counting has become foreign to me. How many lives have I destroyed? How many families have lost a son, a brother, a father? It no longer matters. Here, on this battlefield, only my survival counts, and that of my comrades.

  We advance relentlessly, like war machines, a monolithic unit, a block, we are an army of conquerors. None of us slows down, none turns away. We are a ruthless wave that submerges everything in its path, and all I can do is advance with it. One step after another. There is no longer a battle in my head, only this euphoria of knowing that I will live tonight.

  We have advanced so much that, now, through the blurry horizon, I can see the tents of the enemy generals. They are there, set back, like relics of what remains of an already devastated army. The men who are still fighting are few, a handful, and their despair can be seen in their eyes. Why don't they surrender? Why do they continue to fight, even when all is lost? The question hangs in the air, but no one answers. None of us has time to stop and think. War does not give us this luxury.

  Our swords strike again and again. The cries of the enemies mix with the metallic noises of the armors and the grunts of the horses. The smell of blood is omnipresent. The last men of the enemy fall under our blows, their bodies collapse like rag dolls. Yet, the line of defense seems never to want to give way completely. Their leader, their commander, somewhere behind these tents, must be hiding if he has not fled.

  We advance, but there is something macabre in this fight. The end is near, but the enemy's stubbornness destabilizes me. Their resistance seems to draw from an inexplicable despair. Perhaps, like us, they no longer have room for reflection. Perhaps it is the fear of defeat that drives them to fight, a fear they refuse to accept.

  The noise of our steps and our blows becomes a sinister song, a chant of victory that, paradoxically, resonates like a funeral melody. We mow down their last forces, the last hopes that break under our blades. I feel the weight of this war, not only on my arms, but in every fiber of my being. But I have no right to stop. Not yet.

  The enemy tents are within sight, but I wonder if there is still any point in pursuing this massacre. The men who remain no longer have the strength to defend themselves properly. But it is a question to which I do not have time to answer, because already, other enemies fall, and the noise of the weapons makes everything forget. We advance again and again, carrying everything in our path.

  Suddenly, a deafening noise tears through the air, like a clap of thunder that shakes the sky and the earth. The ground vibrates. All around me, the soldiers stand up, tense, their eyes wide with surprise. It takes me a moment to realize what is happening. I see it, death coming. It runs towards us like a bride runs towards her lover. It comes in the form of a cloud of dust and then transforms into a river of metal and horses. Knights in armor, horses in armor, they make the ground and the air tremble in a roar that seems to come from nowhere, the enemy cavalry attacks us, striking directly at our flank.

  The shock is brutal, in an instant, our momentum is broken. Our lines break under the pressure of the charge. We had fallen into their trap, they had sacrificed soldiers like pawns in a chess game, to destroy us. Everything we had accomplished, crossed reduced to nothing. I thought I was an invincible hero, I was just a pawn among many others, caught in the trap of a tactic that had begun long before I got up. I only saw the outcome now that it was too late.

  We try to reposition ourselves, but the confusion is total. The knights emerge, fast, relentless, striking all around. The carnage has changed sides, now, we are its toys and it wants to break us.