I see them laughing on shitcafe. Let them. They will feast and drink themselves merry and fall asleep in the tents this night, whilst we must retreat, lick our wounds; honour and bury our men. Their joy at our misfortune may sustain them in the gruelling months ahead. But they will grow complacent. They shall forget about the threat of the red menace. Whilst they are resting on their laurels, we shall rebuild. Stronger, smarter, tougher than before. As the nights stretch into August, they shall sleep contently, only to be woken by the beat of a drum. Softly at first, like the first beat of a butterfly’s wings, but soon increasing in sound and intensity, until it is deafening. By the time they realise what it is, it is too late. The red men are here, lined up to face them on the brow of the hill. Our soldiers, resplendent in red, hearts on their sleeves, calves in their socks, waiting to vanquish them once and for all. Hold fast, red men, We. Shall. Return. This isn’t the fall of Rome, it is the start of an empire.
