Charge of the Light Brigade

"Man down!" screamed Private Stanley, ducking for cover behind a rocky outcrop. He looked over at what remained of Colonel Jake Smythe-White.

"The boss 's copped it," he breathed into his radio. The shelling had stopped as quickly as it had started. The insurgents had moved on, looking for another easy target. A Colonel and three erks in an unprotected Landrover; they must have thought all their Christmas's had come at once. Thought for the day: Muslims don't do Christmas.

The radio crackled. "Say again," Stanley asked, "Orders? I'll check his pockets once it's safe. O.K." The Private slithered toward the dead man on his belly. Blood and powder burns made it difficult to work out where the pockets were. His stomach turned over as he delved through the remains.

"Stanley to HQ." The radio crackled. "I've found something; just a scrap of a much larger piece of paper. It reads 'Forward' then a burnt bit, 'Brigade', then the next line says 'Charge for the guns'. What do we do ,Sir?"

"Obey orders, of course. Charge for the guns."
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