Answer:
The major, a diminutive man with upturned mustaches, had seen action in Libya. His two wound-stripes spoke of battles fought and scars earned. He leaned in, his eyes sharp, and promised a decoration if things went well. I thanked him, my voice trembling, and hoped for success. But deep down, I knew he was too kind.
He gestured toward a dugout, and I followed a soldier through the maze of trenches. The walls seemed to close in on me, and the damp air clung to my skin. The flickering lanterns cast eerie shadows, revealing the worn faces of other drivers. They exchanged glances, their eyes haunted by the same uncertainty.
As I settled into the dugout, the reality sank in. We were in the heart of the conflict, surrounded by danger we couldn’t fully comprehend. The major’s words echoed: “If the thing went well…” But what was this “thing”? What awaited us beyond the trenches? Fear gnawed at my insides, and I realized that survival depended on more than medals and kindness.
I clutched my helmet, listening to distant gunfire. The dugout became my refuge, a fragile sanctuary in a world of chaos. The major’s promise of decoration felt distant, replaced by the urgent need to stay alive. I glanced at the other drivers—they, too, were grappling with the same uncertainty. We were pawns in a larger game, our fate uncertain, our understanding incomplete.
And so, I waited, heart pounding, hoping that whatever lay ahead wouldn’t consume us all. The war had its own logic, its own rules. As the minutes stretched into hours, I wondered if bravery was enough to navigate this labyrinth of fear and confusion.
