“We’ll take it in the morning,” the Colonel said. He stood in the trench and periscoped over the rampart. Shells exploded out on the wasteland between his revetments and the bastion city. There were prone figures out there, some moving a bit. Some not, some in bloody pools.
In the morning we did not take it. Prone figures still lay out there. None of them are moving. The Colonel’s empty body is lying where we left it. We are a mob going home. The bastioneers can have their goddamned bastion. We have made our peace. We are taking it home.