The Forced March

Intermittently, when the snow ceased falling for a moment, Wojak could see the regiments ahead, black against the white fields, crawling interminably over the hilltop under the dull sky. Wojak was a burly, bearded fellow. These winter days pleased him. He liked the tingle that came with marching in the cold air. He liked the dull, rhythmic “scruff” of the hundreds of feet as the regiment swung along, welded by its months of marching into a living unity.


The Aviator

“The French Government declines to accept your services.” The words said themselves over and over in his ears in the drone of the motor, as the monoplane climbed into the velvet night sky.