A column sixteen guns wide and five guns deep faced off against another column of twice the greater proportions. They were still too far out of range to start the battle and as such they were marching forward towards each other over farmlands - red with the crimson rain of blood and the hail of flesh, lead and bone. They were treading on the rotting dead of battles passed. The once proud farmland was a marshland now. The mixture of urine, sweat and blood mixed with maggots, sand and cotton made it so. In this marsh, there before the party dressed in blue, was a medal on a necklace cuffed around the neck of a decomposing corps. The medallion had the vague image of St. Christopher embedded on it... a bitter irony. The ground beneath them chirped like cobblestone it was the sound of decaying bones breaking under the lightweight of soldiers as young as fifteen years old. This plain of decay and death was one of the many sacrifices paid for the American liberation.

The musketeers now were close enough and came to a halt in their brothers' graves. And for every red coat on a dead man in the marsh there were ten times more the alternative. And for every blue coat on a live man there were twice as many Red Coats. The men fighting for liberty had seen few battles and had little training. They were young and afraid. There was one thing, though that they did have on their side At the rear they raised the American flag as their first volley blazed across the battlefield. Ten more men were added to the marsh. Then it was the British Red Coats releasing a volley. More barrels emptied of smoke and lead, throwing little drops of death across the battlefield. Not a shot had missed. Sixteen men fell dead. The Red Coats then kneeled to reload as their comrades passed to get closer and to fire another volley.The oppressed fired against the oppressor yet again and as lead dug into bone and blood mist colored the air red- a volley was returned. The structure of returning fire suddenly broke down and every man tried his best to get his next shot out.The Redcoat general was behind his men on horseback holding a flintlock pistol in his hand. It had fine features engraved into its every surface. He lifted it to fire at the enemies who were breaking the ranks in the front of his well-formed squire of infantry.Then, from the birth of guerilla tactics, came a melodic beat as shots cut into him and his horse. To the left, right and rear of the squire of Red Coats, militia charged, shooting wildly. The British turned to return fire but in the rush and haze of the moment, their shots too were crippled. Soon men with swords and bayonets closed them in and thereafter they were all dead. Bodies were twisted and mangled in knots around muskets stained with blood and grime.Maybe an hour later after the dead had been stripped of any and all supplies, they had to leave to avoid the swarms of flies gathering around the fallen dead and nothing had been won.The farm was lost Lives were lost... dreams and ambitions were ended The next day would have another battle in store for the troops. Such is the pursuit of man that he will stop at no border to achieve wealth in greedy abundance.The British wanted more land and as such their many conquests. The Americans wanted less tax and a flag to call their own. In attempt to achieve this, they rose against their Fatherland. But in the war, the soldiers were merely pawns, dying for doing what, in their eyes, was the right thing to do.

-Thank you for reading please leave comments (Positive or Negative, both will help me to learn)

-Please note that my first language is not English so don't look too aggresively at the grammar.