Despair and Hope (Please Vote with Monthly Tickets!)

At last, the commander's voice rang out beside their ears. "Aim! Fire—"

Old Wicha and his son raised their guns together and fired at the Austrians opposite them.

Yet there was little formation on their side, and their firing was terribly uneven. Only a dozen or so men fell in the Austrian Army's Infantry Line.

The Swiss Mercenaries' column, however, suddenly spread out and shot down dozens of enemy soldiers at close range.

Makavsky immediately pointed in that direction and shouted, "Concentrate your attacks there!

"Hold on, everyone! For the mines, for Poland!"

Old Wicha immediately signaled for his son to move with him toward the gap in the enemy ranks. Along the way, they loaded, fired, then pressed onward again and again.

His brow remained furrowed as he prayed that no bullet would strike him, and prayed that any bullet aimed at his son would turn toward him instead.

Then he thought of the comfortable life his family had enjoyed over the past year, of white bread spread with Butter, and of Donald's Girl, whom his son liked.

If they could drive away the invaders this time, the two of them could get engaged.

His pace quickened. He charged until he was fewer than fifty paces from the enemy, then abruptly stopped, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger.

A blossom of blood burst ahead of him. He had hit that bastard.

He looked back at his son, then calmly began reloading.

Bullets whistled past his ears now and then, but his prayers seemed to be working. He was never hit.

He ran forward a few more steps, raised his gun, and fired.

Fewer and fewer fellow workers remained around him. His mind had gone completely blank, leaving only one thought: he absolutely could not run.

"Ah!"

Young Wiecha