After the smoke cleared, most of the subversives lay dead on the battlefield.
Later the afternoon I offered my army ration to one of the survivors who seemed somewhat cultivated.
He waved it away. “Thanks, I’m not hungry, only thirsty.”
I handed him my canteen bottle. “Let me ask you, was it worth it, this great rebellion of yours? Pain and suffering, people dying, including innocent civilians in crossfire, horrendous destruction all over the land.”
“Eleven,” he said.
I shook my head. “Eleven! What about eleven?”
“Eleven of us have made it through,” he explained.
I counted the POWs. “Accurate, eleven. And…”
“And the world belongs to the living.”
I didn’t understand what he meant but since then it’s become clear: try as we might, we’ll never defeat these people.
Thousand battles won; no victory.