| 54th Battalion. 4th Division. Unit 984. | | | | piece of profit from melted down silver. |
| Belgium. 1944. Crumbling buildings. Strewn | | | | Another soldier carries around a picture of |
| bodies. A growing fear. Boiling, uneasy | | | | his daughter, while another carries just the |
| groans. Seeing beyond the pale light of the | | | | memories in his head of his childhood house, |
| war to the dim glimmer of death. Something | | | | secluded in a small town in the woods. But |
| is inside of these men, twitching, squirming. | | | | among these men, these marching soldiers |
| Just the pebbles of a once great | | | | battling for control over their lves as much |
| civilization crunching beneath their feet. | | | | as the next man, there is one man -- Che -- |
| walking steady, keeping your head up, looking | | | | who holds one thing prized above all: a love |
| around cautiously, sometimes drawn into the | | | | letter given to him by his lover. At least, |
| tomb of thought and unweariness. A dead body | | | | she once was his lover, and she once swore |
| lies against a building. Nobody notices. | | | | all of her love just to him. Laura, a name |
| More marching. A soldier's head falls, | | | | so divine that only the angels could speak |
| himself still marching. A girl. A face. A | | | | it. Her tender legs, moist inside, |
| lover. A friend knocks him out of dreams | | | | passionate touch, lustfully in love and |
| with a gentle hit. More marching. More | | | | always sincere in her affection. These were |
| climbing through the traughs of earth. | | | | the thoughts racing through the mind of Che, |
| Conquering more territory in the nightmare of | | | | as he marched in the war parade across the |
| existence. Squinting. Confusion. Fog. | | | | streets which yielded no playful and careless |
| Myst. But a clear day. Rest stop. A | | | | children. |
| soldier sits on rubble and dumps the contents | | | | |
| of his canteen on his face. Another wipes | | | | Laura, once the avowed lover of Che, but no |
| his neck with a white cloth. Lying on his | | | | more. For after this love letter he is |
| stomach, occassionally making noises, another | | | | holding in his hands, which was like fleeting |
| soldier stairs into the inevitable future, | | | | touches of her body, another letter came. |
| undeniable fate. He turns over on his back, | | | | The first letter spoke of devotion and the |
| his weapon by his side. He gets up and | | | | second of desertion. His four months (now 6) |
| leaves, his gun left. Clinking and clanking | | | | of existence in a foreign land was too much |
| of tools and weapons, as everyone senses the | | | | for her. Her first love letter was volumous, |
| move out order. Then it comes. And more | | | | with imagery of physical affection and love |
| marching. They're on the road that leads no | | | | -- something any soldier would cherish from |
| where and it goes for miles and miles. They | | | | their lover. Physical love manifested within |
| will walk until their feet had worn down, and | | | | the words of our humble English language. |
| they had nothing but nubs left, and then they | | | | The words of the letter were etched into his |
| would walk 10 miles more. | | | | heart, the way two lovers claim a tree by |
| | | | marking the bark. He memorized every |
| His rifle in his hands, moving at the same | | | | sentence, every syllable. But she left him. |
| pace of the other soldiers, Che walked with | | | | The initial shock was almost disbelief. |
| about as much uncertainty as he has | | | | Then, there was a void in his purely |
| inexperience. He was, like many of the | | | | militaristic existence. And while the real |
| soldiers in his platoon, a soldier, a boy, a | | | | Laura was away with another, she was dead to |
| man, a lover, a hater, a beast of passion, | | | | him. A once living beauty crumbled to pieces |
| desire, love, and lust. He was in another | | | | as he read the truth on white paper. His |
| nation and sacrificing days of his life that | | | | mind churned with the ingredients of misery, |
| would torment him for years. The opinion of | | | | preparing the concoction of fate. Marching |
| this varied from man to man in the platoon. | | | | with a heavy head. He still kept the first |
| To some, it was a patriotic call to duty, and | | | | love letter, to remind him of how happy he |
| to others it was just a requirement, while | | | | once was. And oh how he was indeed! In no |
| others still were Pacifists who had been | | | | other time of his life could he sincerely |
| tortured and threatened with imprisonment by | | | | attest to so much comfort and love. Slowly |
| the US government, as was not uncommon. It | | | | through denial, anger, sympathy, he kept his |
| didn't take long for the patriots to realize | | | | love letter, and just as surely as he read |
| that what they were doing was hardly | | | | her aged words of affection, she was reading |
| patriotic, that it was not helping their | | | | another man's poetry. Two months had passed |
| people, nor was it helping any people. | | | | since the breakup. He march, still in tune |
| Either way, like Che, the members of this | | | | to Laura's love song, not with a heavy heart, |
| platoon were here on foreign soil, armed, | | | | but the beautiful past lifting him in the |
| with orders to destroy, themselves unready to | | | | air. |
| kill. The platoon moves, until it finds its | | | | |
| locations: no where. The platoon leader | | | | But it was this day that Che marched with the |
| tells his soldiers that they're sleeping | | | | words of Laura in his hand, not looking, not |
| here, among the rubble with rats and roaches. | | | | thinking, but just visualizing her soft |
| | | | caress as her words looked at him. The |
| Nighttime. A cloak of darkness spread over | | | | debris of broken tools, destoryed buildings, |
| the land, as soldiers retired to the ground | | | | or tattered clothing was subject to his worn, |
| for sleep. As the sun sets on the horizon, | | | | numb feet, his fixation not altering once. |
| so it sets on this evening of their lives, | | | | And whether it was by his own negligence or |
| never to come again. And with their lives | | | | lack of concentration, he wound up where he |
| full of hardship and existence, today is the | | | | was. He looked up, stopping in his tracks |
| last day they will have this much ahead of | | | | and the words of the letter, and he saw |
| them. Whether there is only one day before | | | | German faces, with German-military helms and |
| death, or a great many decades, there is a | | | | wearing German-military outfits. Holding his |
| limit on existence of all those men. Here | | | | letter in his hand, his rifle slung, he saw |
| they are, in a great World War, fighting to | | | | one of the German soldiers raise his gun to |
| end the existence of other men. Their names | | | | shoot. Che asked one thousand questions: |
| may not be remembered, but what they do will | | | | Does she love me still? Does she still think |
| forever change the course of the planet. | | | | about me? Does she know that I still love |
| | | | her? Does she know I kept her letters? What |
| Daybreak. The soldiers struggle to | | | | does she think about me? What does she think |
| consciousness as they warm breakfast over | | | | about me? What does she think about me? And |
| scattered campfires. The morning dusk has | | | | then a blast lasting no more than a |
| brought nothing but chills. The endless | | | | microsecond, and he fell, the wind taking |
| march began again. Every soldier has their | | | | possession of his letter. But as the azure |
| own lucky charm, or momento, or tangible | | | | skies turn a darker shade, and as his body |
| piece of sentimentality. One soldiers | | | | loses feeling, Che wonders if he should have |
| carries a pendant given to him by his | | | | lived his last few weeks of existence as he |
| grandmother. To him it is a purpose, but to | | | | did. |
| a scavenging German soldier, it is a small | | | | |