A dream of Paris

When we first enlisted, the officers talked about Paris like it was just around the corner. They painted pictures of grand victories, of parades through the city streets, of a war that would be over by Christmas. We all believed it. We believed that we would march into Paris as heroes, see the Eiffel Tower rise above the city, and celebrate the end of the war in the cafes and streets of the French capital. Paris wasn't just a city; it was a symbol of everything we were fighting for—victory, glory, and the quick end to a war we barely understood.

But now, as we sat in the muddy trench, with the weight of Tom's death still heavy on our shoulders, that dream of Paris felt like a cruel joke. The city, the victory, the parades—they were just illusions, stories we told ourselves to keep going. The reality was that Paris might as well have been on another planet. We were no closer to it now than we had been when we first set foot on the battlefield.

The days of believing in quick victories were long gone. Instead of charging triumphantly into Paris, we were stuck in a war of attrition, inching forward through mud and blood, fighting for every scrap of land. The war was no longer about glory; it was about survival, about holding the line and pushing forward inch by inch, even when it felt like we were getting nowhere.

One afternoon, as we huddled in the trench, trying to stay warm against the cold, Will finally voiced what we had all been thinking.

"Do you remember when they told us we'd be in Paris by Christmas?" he asked, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Sam snorted, his face twisted in a grim smile. "Yeah, I remember. They made it sound like we'd be there in a few weeks, like it was just a matter of time before we were marching down the Champs-Élysées."

"Well, Christmas has come and gone," James said quietly, "and we're still here."

"We're not going to Paris, are we?" Henry asked, his voice small. It wasn't really a question. We all knew the answer.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "We're not going to Paris. Not now, maybe not ever."

There was a heavy silence as we all absorbed the truth of those words. The dream of Paris was one of the things that kept us going in the early days of the war. It had been a beacon of hope, a promise that all of this suffering would lead to something greater. But now, that beacon had faded, leaving us with nothing but the harsh reality of the war.

"I used to think about what it would be like," Will said, his voice distant. "Walking through the streets of Paris, seeing the Eiffel Tower, drinking wine in a cafe. I thought it would be the reward for all of this, that it would make everything we've been through worth it."

"It's funny," Sam added, "how they sold us on that dream. Made us believe that we were just one battle away from victory, one step away from Paris. But all we've done is move from one muddy trench to another, fighting for every inch of ground like it's the last thing on earth that matters."

James nodded. "Paris was never the point. We were fools to think it was."

"I still want to see it," Henry said quietly, almost to himself. "I still want to believe we'll get there one day."

We all turned to look at him. His eyes were full of a kind of sad hope, the kind that clings to a dream even when reality says it's impossible.

"Maybe we will," I said, though I didn't believe it. "But it won't be the way we imagined. If we ever get to Paris, it'll be as broken men, not as the heroes we thought we'd be."

"I'm not sure I want to see it anymore," Will said, shaking his head. "Not if it means more of this." He gestured around at the trench, at the mud, at the bodies of men who had been our friends. "Not if it means losing more of us."

"Paris isn't real," James said, his voice firm. "Not the Paris they told us about. It's just a dream they fed us to keep us fighting, to keep us from realizing what this war is really about."

"And what is this war really about?" Sam asked, his voice full of bitterness.

"Survival," James replied. "It's about getting through each day, each battle. It's about holding on to the people we have left, because that's all we can do. The dream of Paris... it's just that—a dream. And it's time we stopped chasing it."

The words hit us all hard, but we knew he was right. The dream of Paris had kept us going in the beginning, but now it was a burden, a reminder of how far we had fallen from the promises we had believed in. We had come to this war thinking we were fighting for something noble, something grand. But now, all we were fighting for was each other, for the chance to see another day.

Henry sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. "So, what do we do now?"

"We keep fighting," I said, though the words tasted bitter in my mouth. "Not for Paris, not for glory, but for each other. We keep going because that's all we can do."

Will nodded, though his face was set in a hard line. "We fight to survive. We fight to make sure that, when this is all over, there's still something left of us."

"Maybe," Sam said, his voice softer now, "one day we'll get to Paris. But if we do, it'll be on our terms, not because some officer promised it to us."

"And if we don't," James added, "then we'll find something else to fight for. Something real."

We all nodded, though the weight of the conversation hung over us like a dark cloud. The dream of Paris was gone, but in its place, there was a new resolve—a determination to survive, to keep fighting, not for some distant city, but for each other. It wasn't the victory we had once dreamed of, but it was something we could hold on to, something that felt real in a world that had become a nightmare.

The days passed, and the battles continued. The war didn't change—it was still brutal, still relentless, still tearing us apart piece by piece. But something inside us had shifted. We no longer fought with the blind hope that Paris was just over the next hill. Instead, we fought with the understanding that the only thing we could count on was each other. The dream of Paris was gone, but our bond, our brotherhood, was stronger than ever.

And so we kept going, kept pushing forward through the mud and the blood, kept holding the line, not because we believed in some grand victory, but because we believed in each other. Paris might have been a dream, but the men beside us—they were real. And in the end, that was enough.