The Trapped Soul - Original Writing

The Trapped Soul - Original Writing

A mist that covers everything has descended over the battlefields of

Borodino; no longer are the sounds of war heard, the cries of injured

men has stopped. A black shape starts to emerge from the grey smog, a

lost trapped soul wandering the battlefield after this fateful

afternoon. This figure of a ghost however is focused on one thing,

finding his friend; he searches through the mist, but to no avail. The

heavens are grey, the air is grey everything is grey. Accept for the

battle colours of dead French soldiers and the half torn flags that

are sinking into the bog, just like the heavy cannons and cavalry

found.

Some eighty thousand soldiers died that day in the battle; fifty

thousand died defending Moscow buying time for the population of the

capital to escape from Napoleons rule.

The bloodiest one-day battle in the Napoleonic wars started on a

morning that was so tranquil, so beautiful that it’s hard to imagine

the difference come the end of the day. Not a soul stirred in the

Russian camp, exhausted after their one hundred and ten kilometre walk

from Moscow: A cockerel crowed in the distance, signalling the dawn of

a new day. Dimitry a peasant soldier of the Tsar, woken by the gentle

breeze that caressed his innocent face, the sunlight danced, dappled

through the tree that had protected him from a midnight downpour.

Dimitry was a lanky figure compared to his smaller grubbier friend

even though they were of similar age. Mikhail looked as if he had a

lot more life experience. Dimitry lay on his back gazing at the clouds

in the blue morning sky imagining what glory lay ahead of him today,

...

... middle of paper ...

...r, which makes his decision even harder. Standing in front of

this friend on the floor deciding whether to let Dimitry live and

escape to tell the generals to evacuate the base or whether to kill

Dimitry and have the chance to capture the Russian generals. He

follows orders and does his duty. Dimitry is no more. Yet Mikhail did

not weep and did not cry he was in a state of shock. Mikhail later

died leading a bayonet charge on the base camp of the Russian

generals. Here he lies forever more holding the tricoleur.

There two men lie, first they seem allies, then just friends and now

it seems they cannot make amends for the deed which one man has done

and the need for forgiveness, which he needs. A black shape starts to

emerge from the grey smog, a lost trapped soul wandering the

battlefield after this fateful afternoon.