A bit late, but here's another story from last semester. For Contemporary Australian Writing. The task was to copy the style of one of the authors we'd been looking into. This is the result. Enjoy!
He's annoyed. He shouldn't even be out here. He should be on guard duty, on patrol, just something vaguely worth his time. But those damn "freedom fighters", or whatever they call themselves, just can't be satisfied, can they?
He looks around at his fellow troops, he can see that plenty of them are just as sick of this as he is.
The group he is at the front of slow down as they reach a bridge crossing over a river. It's narrow, so he and the others will have to go along a couple or so at a time. After one of his commanding officers went first, he follows.
For so long, he had been wondering why the natives insisted on causing trouble; they were better off with his people there. They've got a more efficient government, bigger economy, and his is just a better country to be a part of; it's more advanced, safer, and his leader is great at what he does. Why shouldn't they come in and help these people along?
He is especially perplexed at this "rebellion", if you could even call it that. Being a soldier, he knows that his country's military is one of the best in the world, not to mention, they have plenty of allies. The natives barely had any numbers and obviously didn't have the equipment or the resources to last for long.
Thinking about it, he figures that they must have been motivated after the couple of victories they did manage to get. Idiots. The couple of targets they took over are by no means equal to the army. Also, there must be the usual excuse of "they took our land" and "they are threatening our way of life"; their land was now being used for much more important reasons and their way of life wasn't of good to begin with.
He had heard that the two men behind, practically, this whole war were in charge of the force camped across the river.
His own group would pass over the bridge and regroup where the river loops around some marshland before attacking. Apparently, one of the commanders' advisers thought this was a bad idea, since there would be some time where the group was basically split. The commander rightfully ignored him; his group's best-equipped troops were crossing first, there's no way the rebels can touch them. He held his own weapon to his chest. He had used it to help his army win plenty of battles, and it would see plenty of these rebels dead.
As he was almost across the bridge, he looked up at the hill to see the enemy force. He wondered where the two men in charge of them were among them. They were the biggest idiots among them. They'd been offered a chance to surrender and they were actually stupid enough to threaten them in return. One of them had a reputation for beating back the odds with a savage ferocity, clever mind and charisma to draw anyone to his cause. Well, today that reputation would be revealed as nothing but myth when his force is beaten and he's executed.
He followed his commander off the bridge to the river loop. He positioned himself behind him to wait for the others to cross the bridge and join them.
Some time passed, almost half of his force had made it across, and the rebels hadn't moved an inch. Maybe it finally dawned on them how outmatched they were. He looked over to the bridge to see his fellow soldiers coming over and smirked. There was a good reason that his country had done so well; this army had a well-earned reputation for success. The rest of his group would pass over, then they would ride the rebels down like grass.
His smirk disappeared when he heard a noise coming from the hill. He turned his head to see that it was, in fact, the rebels letting out a massive war cry. It was one unlike any he had heard before. There was passion, rage and determination behind the massive collective shout to rival that of any other army.
His nerves flared. What were they doing? They were still outmatched.
The first wave charged towards his still-split force, weapons at the ready.
Were they really that stupid? No matter how determined they were, they weren't about to take down the best-equipped of this force without-
He froze. The weapons they had... The way the soldiers were moving... They are going to trap him between them and the river and use their weapons to take down him and the rest of the heaviest forces his army had. When that happens, he's done.
The bridge will be blocked and he can't swim, so he can't escape. His army is still squeezing slowly across the river a few at a time, so there are no reinforcements coming. The only way out will be through the horde of angry natives charging at him.
He saw more of the enemy army charge down behind the first wave. They let out another war cry as they sprinted towards him. Then he saw him. One of the enemy leaders. Immediately, he understood why he had such a reputation. He must have been seven-feet tall, heavily-built and he wielded a simply terrifying weapon, and he had helped mastermind this... slaughter.
He realised that that was exactly what this battle was going to be. His country had pushed and hammered this country into rage and desperation. His commanding officers ignored sound advice that would have prevented this on the assumption that victory was assured. And he had underestimated the rebels, getting himself stuck in this situation.
He took in what he knew would be one of his last breaths of precious air, lamenting the fact that it was not that of his home nation. His mind cleared as he breathed out, seeing his breath in the cold air. There was nothing else he could do. It was time to fight, and for king and country, he would put down the rebellion of Andrew Moray and William Wallace.
Thanks for reading. As always, please critique, it is my creative bread and butter.
In case you were wondering, this was based directly off of the story "He stands in front of the the mirror...". It was part of Craig Cormick's "A Funny Thing Happened At 27,000 Feet" collection, published by Ginninderra Press, which I definitely recommend.