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