He tried so very hard not to show his emotions.  Huddled together with his men, the young officer put on a brave face, even though he was frightened to death.

“Liar,” he told himself; “ you are just as scared as they are.”

He swallowed hard as another flare was lit up in the distance.  The pounding of the guns echoed with the pounding of his heart.

They pressed their bodies against the ramparts; shivering from cold and fear, they flinched as the mortars exploded bringing up earth and rock, deadly shrapnel flying all around them.  Many cried; others screamed as sharpened bits of metal ripped through their bodies.  Bullets flew around them like a swarm of deadly insects, tearing holes in the mealy bags and ripping apart the men behind them.

The medics busied themselves as the wounded cried out in the darkness; their calls pitiful and horrific.

His gorge rose as the trench filled with blood; the stench of the dead and the dying invading his nostrils.

They were like sheep being lead to the slaughter.

Then he remembered how it was only a few weeks ago; how his men had broken the rebel defenses at the eastern bunker; how he heard the cries of the enemy soldiers as they screamed in terror and pain.  Now the tide had turned.  The bunker was rebuilt and the enemy wanted revenge; revenge for the wretched souls who were buried alive; revenge for the runner who he once called his friend.

“Yoochun,” Changmin whispered under his breath. “Forgive me.”

He swallowed hard as a shrill whistle echoed through his trench.  It was the signal he dreaded to hear; the signal to attack.

He turned to his men; some were as young as he was; filled with the promise of glory they came to be heroes.

They were fools.

Others were older men; some were drafted, others volunteered.  They had no wives or children to provide for; they only had themselves and their belief in a cause that was long forgotten.

He looked at them all and nodded his head; one by one they smiled back at him despite the knowledge that he was leading them to their doom.

“Fix bayonets,” he ordered; his men obeying without question.  He readied his own rifle and waited for the final whistle to blow.

The huge guns stopped firing, and an eerie silence fell across the front.

The second whistle blew signalling it was time to meet the enemy head on.

“Over the wall boys,” he said as  the entire battalion around them climbed over the mealy bags.

“Give them Hell.”

They followed him over the ramparts; like a well oiled machine they moved in silence waiting for the guns to go off once more; waiting to meet the rebels face to face; to kill or be killed by bullets, grenades, mortars or to be skewered at the end of a sharpened blade.

They followed him without question; they were Changmin’s men; they were a special breed; tried and tested warriors; they worked well together because they had faith in their officer; a man who despite his youth instilled courage in them.  And so they marched forward; never flinching or wavering or showing signs of weakness as they followed “Long-legged Min” into the jaws of death…

 

“Look at it burn,” Junsu spoke with a trembling voice; the doctor holding Yoochun’s hand.  The runner reached out for Jaejoong; the medic grasping his friend’s fingers.  All three were safe in their camp; the general saw to that.  He kept Jaejoong behind; even medics ran the risk of being killed. Despite Yoochun’s insistence, Junsu refused to give him a clean bill of health.

The three stood as if frozen in time; they could see the glow in the distance of the battlefield; the night sky lit with rockets and flares; the whole horizon ablaze like the fires of Hell.

“Min is out there,” Yoochun muttered.

The three friends held each other tightly and cried.

“Come home to us, little one,” Jaejoong weeped as the battle raged on.

Junsu buried his head in the crook of Yoochun’s neck.

“Min,” he whispered as his tears flowed.

Yoochun took a deep breath.

“Always keep the faith, Su; always keep the faith….”

 

He took one final look around his quarters.  His things were packed; his personal items crammed into a single bag which lay on top of his bed.  Jung Yunho was ready.  He wasn’t quite sure what was the next step; either the government would make a final stand in the capitol city or they would surrender.  Either way, with the Americans in the war it was a mute point; it would all be over soon.  Leaning heavily on his cane he limped over to his chair.

“One more glass of claret,” he told himself as he poured a drink.

He stared into the fireplace and thought of his friend; the wide-eyed youngster who dreamed of fame and glory.

“Come home to me Min,” he spoke in the emptiness of his little room.

One glass became two, then three and four; the effects of the claret beginning to take it’s toll as his vision blurred and his surroundings seemed to melt into darkness.  The glass fell from his hands as his head tilted to one side.  Blinking; he stared into the fire; his intoxicated brain playing tricks on him.  The flames danced and melded together forming a face.  He reached out and called to the apparition before losing consciousness.

“Jaejoong…”