text: A fog veiled cold morning greets the sleep-deprived man of the Second Restovian Revolutionary division with bullets. The projectiles fly past the trenches into an old corroded armed vehicle. "They hit Kalina again the bastards!" exclaimed one of the soldiers. The joke was getting old and insufficient against the grim monotony misery and futility of trench warfare, especially in a position such as this. I wished for a bullet to find a home in a skull for a change even if it was my own. First of November It was time for some mud aficionados to scout the enemy positions and hopefully our comand to decide to attack. I craved for an attack order and even a fatal one should be prefered to this craven shivering hell. As I was passing by the generals bunkers. I ower herd a conversation mentioning shock troops from the northern parts of the Cassadian mountains. The conversation context seemed to be one of reinforcements. This could mean a possibility of advancement and repositioning. A peculiar peace of conversation made me question my senses. "The Blackbirds shuld advance..." Perhaps I was going insane from the utter sense of disappointment in our past actions, therefore, imagining some form of hope ridden scenario for the sake of my sanity, I owerheard the name of the legendary shock troopers from the North, the infamous Blackbirds. Hope seems to me now a weapon as important as a bayonet with only one difference. It is pointed to myself. I waited for comrade Bitov to exit the bunked and confirm or disapprove this dream-like fantasy of mine. He seemed surprised and annoyed by my intrusiveness making me once again confirm my sentiment of disillusionment with the party propaganda of "Army of equals" His words betrayed a trace of fatality which led me to believe that an attack was in the plan. Our command was truly unprofessional and craven. I was always disdained by their unwillingness to action and their two-faced nature when it came to politics. Opportunistic and hypocritical to the core. A man such as this corrodes the revolutionary spirit before it even began to taste victory. The next morning the command issued orders and a summary of the battle plan. The orders came from Levov himself. Our forces were to storm the enemy positions with no retreat or mercy. A heroic sacrifice was to be made against the front line trenches fortified with machine guns. This would provide a distraction that "The Blackbirds" would exploit disabling the artillery from behind enemy lines in a special operation that itself seems to me suicidal at best. Blackbirds second division should attack the flanks and provide a breakthrough and a chance to victory. The remaining surviving man of our division should join the ranks of The Blackbirds upon finishing our mission. The odds of survival being minimal this seemed a fools gold type of promise. The commanders were visibly shaken by these orders, they tried their best to appear heroic and fanatical, stoic even yet you could see it in their eyes. They feared death. There should be no such sentiment in the Revolutionary war. I felt alienated from my comrades, so fear struck. Am I the only one that made peace with death itself? "Embrace me sweet and merciful death. Let our peace be as eternal and meaningful as our struggle was." I proclaimed such vows as if it was a prayer. Preyers are for the statists, self-sacrifice is the purest form of it to a real revolutionary. I refuse to stand in recess due to fear of impending doom and proclaimed my devotion and zeal. "Towards comrades to death!" "To freedom! " Death is the final form of freedom anyway.