Just a little story I wrote for my British Literature class, but decided was themed wrong. (I got rather carried away while writing it)

Armies are the largest parasites in existence. Fueled by the toiling of the common folk, and formed of the same, they serve no purpose but destruction, which is oft sown equally among friend and foe. They heed only the will of their commanders - proud military leaders with no slight ability in tactics and strategy, who in turn follow their leaders, the kings and queens of this world, who follow their own hearts. War is a self-destructive action, but often a necessary one, engaged in by all because of the fear of being the victim of others.

It is not easy to say who has the worst lot in war - whether it is the peasant whose produce, land, possessions, and often life are gobbled up by those that call themselves his allies and protectors; or the common soldier, fated to fight for a few days for a cause he cares little about, armed only with a crude weapon and maybe some armor, and set against thousands of similar soldiers. Both bear heavy loads in this deadly dance, and neither is a desirable profession. But men could not choose their standing in those days; if you were born a noble, then all was well and good for you. But if you joined the massive ranks of the peasantry, you were doomed to remain such all your life, unless you fought in the frequent wars of that era.

Such a soldier was Matthew; one of the uncountable multitudes of common men pressed into the service of their lords. He had been a farmer for most of his life, but was recruited a season before for the army of Lord John. He was outfitted with a wooden spear and a shield, and told to march - and march he did, along with thousands of other commoners, towards a neighboring duchy. He did not know who he was going to fight, or why; that was for his leaders to consider. He simply wanted to be done with the war and to return to his home and family.

He had now seen two minor battles, during which hundreds of his fellows had met their ends. He had fought and killed other men, and had grown, if not fond of it, at least numb to the idea of killing. His third battle was only hours away, and after that there would be a fourth, and possibly a fifth, before this war was over. If he was fortunate, he would survive the coming battle. If not, he would see his true Lord that much sooner.

The army marched slowly, steadily. Their feet pounded an uneven cadence into the packed earth and dry grass over which they marched, but other than that, no sound was heard. The birds were absent from that region, having fled before the forerunners of their force. Somewhere in the woodlands ahead lay the enemy army. The enemy had every advantage possible - they were greater in numbers and superior in weaponry; they had the cover of the forest; and they knew the terrain well. They were nearly certain to win this battle, and force the invaders out of their land.

A halt was called, and the entire force stopped where they were. Some sat upon the trampled ground and pulled out bags of rations; others conversed in low tones about the upcoming conflict. The common soldiers knew very little about the battle to come, but that lack of knowledge did not in any way hinder speculation. However, these activities were soon cut short by the arrival of mounted officers, who split the army up into divisions and positioned those divisions according to the battle plan laid forth by an unseen commander. A scouting party emerged from the treeline, riding hard and shouting to attract attention; the enemy had been sighted. Around Matthew, old and new soldiers alike stared nervously at the dark treeline as they waited for the enemy to emerge.

The forest was still a kilometer or so distant; too far for arrows to reach. Four divisions were placed in an uneven line facing the forest; Matthew was a member of the second of these. Behind the front lines were two divisions of archers and two of cavalry; the former placed in the center, and the latter on the sides, ready to ride out and flank the enemy. Behind these were the meat of the army - ten whole divisions of commoners and trained fighters, awaiting their leaders' command to charge forward. Tensely, they waited for the enemy to show themselves. This pre-battle anticipation was in many ways worse than the battle itself; at least in battle soldiers have something to do to keep their minds off their fears.

The enemy's move came suddenly, without warning, and from an entirely unanticipated direction. A heavy contingent of cavalry swept down on the army's right flank, crushing the unprepared body of the force. As panicked officers gave swift commands and men moved to combat the threat posed by this unexpected attack, the main force of the enemy army came out of the woods - archers in front, followed by cavalry and infantry. Matthew's division, which hadn't yet begun to move, turned its full attention to the more dangerous threat and prepared themselves for the attack. The anticipation had reached a fever pitch, and the men barely had enough self-control to wait for their commander's order before breaking formation and attacking.

The enemy archers stopped their headlong charge, and soon a hail of deadly bolts felled the front ranks of the army. A soldier dropped to the ground on Matthew's left, and another nearby on his right. Three more, their fear getting the better of them, dropped their weapons and ran back through the ranks of soldiers, away from the battle. Then Matthew heard the command given to charge, and sprang forwards, a wordless yell rushing from his adrenaline-soaked body, his spear hoisted aloft. More deadly shafts flew overhead, but he paid them no mind, his whole attention focused on his goal - the enemy soldiers who advanced upon him in a mad rush no more disciplined than his own.

The sides met. All remaining semblance of order vanished and was replaced by pure, unsullied chaos. Matthew and his fellow soldiers fought desperately against the overwhelming tide of attacking men, paying no more heed to their commander than to the grass they trampled underfoot. One, then two men fell beneath Matthew's furious assault; and then an enemy blade pierced his flimsy leather armor, and he fell.

An hour later, it was all over. Every grass blade that was not trampled beyond recognition was coated with a thin sheen of blood; indeed, the entire meadow seemed to be drowning in a sea of red. Mangled corpses littered the field as the victors regrouped, much weaker in numbers but having entirely defeated their opponents. The cries of the wounded carried clearly across the empty space, as parties of men searched for friendly faces among the fallen. The victors soon departed, moving onward to their next destination. Their fight would continue far beyond that day.

But to Matthew, none of this mattered. He had not survived the battle, having been trampled beneath the feet of his own comrades as they surged against the enemy. His bloodied clothes were ground into the dirt where he had fallen, and his broken spear lay under the body of another casualty a few feet away. He was a pitiful sight. Yet in a way he was better off than his living companions, for while they had many days more suffering to endure, he was at that time with his Lord in Heaven.