Battlefield

A low flying plane reconnoitered the battlefield. The scorch marks and craters, the men, dieing and dead. The battle was lost. The enemy seemed to have slain all of the defenders, each trench was shattered, it's men lost. Many families would get black letters this day. The army of evil marched on towards new lands, many detachments stepping onward, synchronized and organized. The plane disappeared in a column of smoke.

But wait, something moves on the ground below. A lone figure has survived the battle. The rest are dead or fled, but one remains. He is only slightly wounded, some miracle of skill or fortune has left him alive.

The vehicles of the enemies grind slowly over the plain. Tanks of immense size move over the smaller trenches without pause, having difficulty only at the largest craters and blockades. A bridging vehicle rolls forward slowly, it's device held vertically over it. Then the transports and the artillery, their shells spent. It seemed ironic that these engines of destruction were having trouble traversing the land that they themselves had made nearly impassable.There was once grass here, even flowers, but now it is destroyed, nature's work unwrought by man.

The single man wacthed the machines come towards him. He was not done yet, he still had blood to spill for this cause.  If he could destroy a single transport, or just one of the giant guns he would have helped his cause.

There had been many traps set by his commanders before the barrage. Mines, triggered by weight or by radio. A bridge that must be destroyed. A pit filled with gasoline that must be ignited. And more, many more plans with no time or men to execute them.

A look of resolve came to his smoke blackened face, as he seized a motorcycle to carry him wherever he had to go.

He would harass these people, these killers, as long as it was granted he should live.