“Present!!” was the only word that Master Harris had to shout to make us musketmen – or musketeers, as others call us – raise our loaded rifles and aim. My hands were shaking, not because it was freezing, nor was it because the musket bore its weight on my tired arms. It was because of the hussars; they were getting too close to our offensive line. But being a musketman is better than being one of the grenadiers. Those were elite soldiers, but they were to stand at the front of the offensive, throwing grenades to decimate enemy foes before they could lay a finger to allies. They were not to break out of their position. I could not imagine wearing the mitre cap, holding a grenade in the front.

The horrors of this battle made me forget that I joined the battle to find my parents, with whom I was separated during the start of the war. I joined when I knew not what a war can do to a man.

I was just seventeen when I took the musket in my hands and joined the battle after hearing rumors about my parents. I had hope back then...

Now I look to my side, and what I see is the dirty face of a fellow youth. I could swear tears were coming down from his eyes.

When this battle reached a critical state for our nation, the leaders made a decision that changed the lives of many. The youth were conscripted to battle, acting as reinforcements sent to major forts established to protect out nation. I was one of the few who volunteered to join; an overwhelming majority was forced to join.

Throughout the two years of battle I have met new faces, and I came to know something about them. The first one I talked to wanted to become a doctor; he didn’t have money to continue his studies. A cuirasser had freed him from the pain of several arrows. Another wanted to be a statesman. A falconet blasted his leg, giving him the reason to go home.

A lot of brothers I’ve met. A lot of brothers we lost.

The hussars were closing in. The grenadiers primed their grenades. Master Harris raised his sword. I could feel my heart beat faster. I swallowed and steadied my arms. The sights of my musket were resting at the chest of an approaching hussar.

“FIRE!!” shouted Master Harris, with a slash of his sword.

I pulled the trigger, praying that my shot counts.

May the saints protect us, so said the Grand Master.