Army - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Every man in the army was trained to obey orders for even the most unconscionable acts. They were less men than weapons on legs, as robotized as it is possible for a human to be and still breathe. Nobody in the top brass cared that should their consciences ever return they would end up with PTSD and likely shattered and drunk old men. They needed unquestioned obedience from their soldiers now and to hell with the consequences.
The army moved as one, a sea of green, as if there were just one brain instead of many. The right legs moved in unison and then the left legs. With each step the sound of the boots on the cold tarmac was like the warning thunder of a coming storm. Slung about their shoulders were rifles with bayonets. Each face was grim against the frigid wind and on every hand was a black glove.
The Russian defences consisted of a semi-elliptical-shaped fort containing 62 casemates on each of two floors from which heavy guns mounted in the centre could sweep the bay almost at water level. Behind the ellipse, and part of the fort, stood a large horseshoe-shaped work on two floors with casemates armed with heavy guns to flank the landward approaches. In the hills behind lay three round towers, also case mated, their guns commanding the countryside. All the masonry was granite, constructed in polygonal form similar to the method used by the Austrians of Verona.
The conscience of the people was rising faster than at any time in history and it was a problem for the generals. The recruits came into the army with notions of fairness and honour. In fact, they were almost as problematic as the general public with their anti-war sentiment. Each new battle had to be "sold" to the men as a heroic act no matter the true aim. Each soldier wanted to be a "Jason Bourne" figure, not a represser or a monster. And so "spin" became the order of the day, no more "point and click" armies, no more doing without asking questions.
Just getting folks to sign on the dotted line meant keeping the romantic emotion of the public to service personal going. Movies helped of course, as did the always shrill news media, the politicians played their parts, and always they managed to fill the ranks with warm uniformed bodies in heavy boots.
Even in the best of temperatures sickness swept the barracks, especially after leave had been granted to visit the town. The soldiers called it "kennel cough" and even those not so badly affected lost sleep; always one of the other eleven was sick. Five thirty in the morning was wake up, beds made and everything clean and tidy before a breakfast of overcooked egg and toast. Kevin sucked back coffee so bad he wouldn't water a plant with it and stood to follow his platoon. The training day ahead promised rain and cold mud, and tomorrow was more of the same.
The army sought to subdue with a show of power as an opening tactic, the right display of might could save them the bother of going into the trenches at all. So many battles had been won with an impressive display of horses and well woven banners. The more they won the further their reputation spread, the more cities fell without so much as a whimper. Those that fought they wiped off the face of the map save a few to spread the tale onwards. The king wanted a kingdom and he wasn't much bothered how he got it.
After just a few weeks the raggle-taggle of men marched as a cohesive unit. Their legs moved in perfect timing, synchronized by an unheard beat. Each pant leg fell to the second lace of their over-shinned boots and the tunics were perfect. In a few weeks more, should they make it back, they would be seasoned in the field; their fear of the unknown replaced with the a veneer of stoic aggression, anything to repress the nightmares that came day or night.
Mustered ranks of soldiers, military maneuvers, marching, striding, rumble of artillery shells, endless rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, land-mines lurking like iron teethed monsters waiting to bite a man in half, smell of gunpowder, shrapnel wounds, rain of bullets, brutal war, dug in trenches, ankle deep in muddy sewer-like mud, stench of latrine, ground shaking with hundreds of identical boots marching in unison, rumble of tanks, moaning and groaning, shrieks, wails, cries of the dying, cluster bombs, mud and debris raining down from great fountains of dirt, battlefield like a sea of earth whipped up in a violent storm, rumble of explosions, brilliant flashes, struck by flying debris.
The army of the English. Beautiful red and yellow banners alighted every spot in the sea of colours. Grandeur that astounded the eye. It smelled of smoke mingled with sweat from the heavy plated armour covering them. Cavalry guarded the flanks with heads held high in pride as their heavily armoured horses sniffed miserably. Strange such beautiful sight could cause so much chaos. Discords of colour still ran through the army like lightning flashing into existence: a coiled snake. The king moved with a flutter of banners that was almost lost in the sea. Blues, reds, yellows, greens. violets, orange and more flashed as they carried on rolling at a snail’s pace with his shell on for armour.