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"And as the night falls, the general calls and the battle carries on. What is the purpose of it all? What's the price of a mile? Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army on the march. Long way from home, paying the price in young men's lives. Thousands of feet march to the beat, it's an army in despair. Knee-deep in mud, stuck in the trench with no way out."-The Price of A Mile, Sabaton

 

"You're leaving young men to die because you wanted to advance such a short distance?"

"Calm yourself, Father. You chose to be here."

"Not HERE, specifically," Mulcahy mumbled. Actually he was very much regretting allowing himself to placed at the front lines. But, he supposed, these boys needed a Chaplain too. 

"Here's something you ought to know as a commissioned officer, Father." The sandy haired captain sat down beside him. "If you put your soldiers into positions once there is no escape, they will prefer death to flight."

"That's awful."

"It's the truth, Father."

"Half a million lives are gone and yet there is no glory to be won." As if on cue, they heard the call of the lieutenant general leading the troop, followed by the sound of a M1919 Browning.

"This is war, Father Mulcahy, the front lines. Know that many men will suffer, and many men will die. That's how it is. If you can't handle it, apply to transfer to a nice cozy office building or a M*A*S*H unit or something where you don't have to deal with marching." With that, the captain stood up, lit a cigarette, and headed off into the night.