Peter carried his Flintlock Rifle on his shoulder, his body slightly tense beneath his dark blue uniform as he moved forward with the flow of Second Company.
He could clearly sense the equally suppressed breathing of the comrades around him and the heaviness of their footsteps. Yet unlike the calm exterior he struggled to maintain, the heart in his chest suddenly became like a wild horse breaking free of the reins, galloping madly beyond his control.
As his palms rubbed against the rough stock and cold metal fittings, clammy sweat began to seep out uncontrollably, only to turn icy at once in the Northern Territory's freezing wind. It was as though someone had stuffed a handful of sand into his mouth, leaving it dry and bitter. He swallowed instinctively, but only made his Adam's apple bob more violently and his thirst deepen.
Countless times during breaks in training, beside the campfire, even in his dreams, he had imagined the battlefield.
In those imaginings, he had always been brave and fearless, his gaze unwavering. Amid blaring battle horns, he would charge into the enemy ranks first like the heroes in the Lord's tales, cutting down one enemy after another with precise gunfire and a sharp bayonet. At last, amid the cheers of his comrades and the Lord's praise, he would become a hero of war. Those fantasies had sustained him through grueling training and the Northern Territory's bitter cold.
But now, when imagination had become reality, when that wall of living enemies brimming with killing intent truly stood two hundred paces away, when the air was no longer filled with campfire smoke but with gunpowder and blood, when his ears were no longer full of training commands but real screams and thunderous blasts...
Peter realized that his body had betrayed him