DEATH IS ETERNAL #416

3,900 words

I have to be honest; I haven’t been feeling quite like myself lately. To be even more honest, I have been somewhat dreading writing DEATH IS ETERNAL. Not because I don’t like it but because I’m not feeling motivated. I’m fighting to get ideas, and as you could by last week and this week, I’ve been coming up short. I don’t know if I’m writing too much, or if life is getting in the way, or if it’s something else, but be as it may, I have a weekly appointment with you, and I came too far to give up my writing streak. So motivated or not, inspired or not, let’s see what I can cook this week.

Contents

1. FIELDS OF HONOUR

2. Writing: pushing

3. Bye!

4. Life (from August 26 to September 08, 2024)

5. Reviews #315, #316, #317, and #318: BATMAN/DYLAN DOG by Roberto Recchioni, Werther Dell’Edera, Gigi Cavenago, and others, THE GAMBLER by Fyodor Dostoevsky, WHITEOUT by Greg Rucka and Steve Lieber, and TOKYO VICE

6. The end

1. FIELDS OF HONOUR

Captain Joseph “Joe” Graham surveyed the scene before him, a vast open field bordered by dense woods and fields of corn swaying under the August sun. The heat was oppressive, the kind that clung to you like a thick coat, even when you stripped down to your shirtsleeves. His uniform, once a proud symbol of the British Army, was now stained with sweat and mud, the khaki tunic clinging to his back. The men of the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Munster Fusiliers milled around him, a mix of exhaustion and determination etched on their faces.

It was August 27, 1914, and the Great War had just begun, though to Graham, it felt like it had been raging for years. His battalion was part of the British Expeditionary Force sent to hold the line against the advancing German Army. Their task was simple but impossible: hold the village of Étreux to buy time for the rest of the British forces to retreat. There was no illusion of survival, only of sacrifice.

Sergeant Michael O’Reilly stood at his side, a giant of a man with a thick black moustache and a face hardened by years of service. He held his rifle at his side, scanning the line of men, offering a nod or a word of encouragement. O’Reilly had been with Graham for years, through skirmishes in far-off colonies and now, here in the heart of Europe.

“Are the men ready, Sergeant?” Graham asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Aye, Captain, they’re ready,” O’Reilly replied, his Irish accent a lilting contrast to the gravity of the moment. “As ready as they’ll ever be. They know what’s comin’.”

Graham nodded, his eyes fixed on the tree line ahead. Beyond it, somewhere, lay the German Army, a force far larger than his own. They had been harried for days, retreating from Mons, always with the enemy on their heels. Now, they had chosen this spot to make a stand, to slow the German advance and give the rest of the BEF time to regroup.

The village of Étreux was behind them, its stone houses silent, shutters drawn, the few remaining villagers hiding or having fled. The men had dug shallow trenches, makeshift defences at best, but all they had time for. Graham knew it wouldn’t be enough, not against artillery and machine guns, but they would fight with what they had.

The order came just before dawn. Graham had gathered his officers, laying out the plan in the dim light of the rising sun. They would hold the village, using the cover of the woods and the stone buildings. The Germans would have to come through the open field, and there, they would make their stand.

“They’ll come soon,” O’Reilly said quietly, as if reading Graham’s thoughts.

“Yes, they will,” Graham replied. “And we’ll be ready.”

The first shells came just after noon, whistling through the air before slamming into the ground with a deafening roar. Earth and debris flew up, showering the men in dirt and smoke. Graham ducked instinctively, then straightened, shouting orders.

“Hold your positions! Return fire when you see them!”

The German infantry emerged from the woods, a wave of grey uniforms moving forward in perfect formation. The Fusiliers opened fire, rifles cracking in quick succession. Men fell on both sides, the air filled with the screams of the wounded and the acrid smell of gunpowder.

Graham fired his revolver, the recoil familiar in his hand. He felt a strange calm settle over him, the noise and chaos fading into the background. He had been in combat before and had faced death, but never like this. This was different. This was hopeless.

O’Reilly stood beside him, firing his rifle with steady precision. “We’ll give them hell, Captain,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise of battle.

“Aye, we will,” Graham replied.

For hours, they fought, the Germans advancing in waves, each one beaten back with heavy casualties. But Graham knew it was only a matter of time. Their ammunition was running low, and more and more men were falling, wounded or dead. Still, they held the line, refusing to give an inch.

By late afternoon, the Germans had brought up artillery, the shells slamming into the village, reducing stone houses to rubble. Graham watched as one of his men was blown apart, a lad no older than seventeen. He felt a pang of guilt, a moment of doubt. Was this worth it? Was this sacrifice in vain?

But there was no time for doubt. A group of Germans had broken through on the left flank, threatening to encircle them. Graham grabbed a handful of men, O’Reilly among them, and rushed to meet the threat. They fought hand to hand, bayonets flashing, bodies falling. Graham found himself face to face with a German officer, his eyes wide with fear or rage. They struggled, the officer’s bayonet slicing into Graham’s arm, the pain sharp and immediate. Graham fired his revolver, the bullet taking the officer in the chest. He fell, blood spreading across his tunic.

O’Reilly was there, pulling Graham back. “We’ve got to fall back, Captain! We can’t hold them!”

Graham nodded, blood seeping through his sleeve. “Order a retreat to the centre of the village. We’ll make our last stand there.”

The men fell back, taking what cover they could behind the remaining walls and rubble. The Germans were advancing steadily now, their victory assured. Graham could see it in their faces, the grim determination to finish the job.

He looked around at his men, what was left of them. Maybe a hundred, maybe less. All tired and bloodied, but still standing. He felt a surge of pride, a fierce loyalty to these men who had stood with him, who had fought and died for each other.

“We hold here,” Graham shouted, his voice hoarse. “We hold here until the end!”

The Germans came, a final wave, overwhelming in their numbers. The Fusiliers fought back, every shot counting, every inch contested. But it was no use. Graham felt a sharp pain in his side, then another in his leg. He fell to his knees, his revolver slipping from his grasp.

O’Reilly was there, pulling him up, firing his rifle with one hand. “Come on, Captain! We’re not done yet!”

But Graham knew they were. He could feel the darkness closing in, the sounds of battle fading. He looked at O’Reilly, at the men around him, and smiled.

“We did our duty, Michael,” he said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

O’Reilly nodded, tears in his eyes. “Aye, Captain. We did.”

Graham closed his eyes, the sounds of battle fading into silence. The village of Étreux would fall, but for a few precious hours, they had held. They had done their duty.

And in that, there was an honour.

The sun was setting as the last shots were fired. The Germans moved through the village, securing what was left. Among the bodies, they found Captain Joseph Graham, his hand still clutching his revolver. They covered his body with a blanket, a small act of respect for a fallen enemy.

In the fields around Étreux, the corn swayed gently in the evening breeze, and the world went on as if nothing had happened. But for those who had fought and died, the memory of this place would live on, a testament to courage and sacrifice in the face of impossible odds.

The end

2. Writing: pushing

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

Writing when you’re not inspired is the most important thing you can do. I’ve come to learn this truth in the grittiest way possible: through sheer stubbornness and countless hours of battling the blank page. It’s easy to write when creativity is flowing, when the words practically tumble out of you like a waterfall, unbidden and unstoppable. Those are the days you feel like a writer, like you’ve been graced by some divine muse whispering lines into your ear. But those days are rare. Most of the time, writing feels like chiselling words out of stone. And it’s precisely in those moments, when inspiration is a barren desert, and every sentence feels like it’s being pried from a tightly shut vault, that you truly become a writer.

Lately, I’ve been living this struggle. Every day, I sit down at my desk, stare at the blinking cursor, and feel... nothing. No spark. No revelation. Just a gnawing emptiness where creativity should be. The words come out stilted, clumsy, like newborn foals taking their first steps. I can see their awkwardness on the page, feel the cringe crawl up my spine as I read back what I’ve written. I know it’s garbage, know that each phrase sounds unnatural, each sentence a betrayal of the language. But I keep writing.

Why? Because I’ve learned that pushing through the inertia, through the doubt, through the pervasive feeling that everything I’m producing is trash is what separates those who want to be writers from those who actually are. It’s easy to write when you feel inspired. But inspiration is a fickle friend, an unpredictable lover who shows up when it suits them and not necessarily when you need them most. True writers learn to write even when inspiration is off gallivanting elsewhere. They learn to court the muse through consistency, not through infatuation.

These past few weeks, I’ve felt like a hollow version of myself, mechanically stringing words together without joy, without that familiar thrill. Part of me worries that I’m burned out, that I’ve tapped my creative reserves dry. And yet, paradoxically, I’m also proud. Proud that I’ve managed to keep showing up, day after day, pushing through the emptiness, forcing myself to write even when it feels like I have nothing left to say. I know that this persistence will pay off. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, whether it’s next week or next year, I’ll look back and thank myself for not giving up. For not letting the lack of inspiration deter me. I am doing this to prove, if only to myself, that I am capable of pushing as hard as I can.

A disclaimer, though: I know my limits, and you should know yours, too. Pushing through what seems like burnout might work for me, but it could be disastrous for you. If you feel like you’re genuinely burning out, if every fibre of your being is screaming for rest, listen to it. Take the time you need to heal, to recharge. Your mind and body know what’s best for you. Ignoring those signals could do more harm than good.

But if you’re just “not feeling like writing”–if it’s merely a matter of motivation rather than a profound, bone-weary exhaustion–then I urge you to write like there’s no tomorrow. Fight through the malaise, confront the discomfort. Because the more you avoid writing, the easier it becomes to avoid it the next day and the day after. Before you know it, weeks have passed, and you’ve fallen into a hole that’s ten times harder to climb out of.

The act of writing is its own reward, even when it feels like punishment. Even when you’re convinced that everything you’re producing is worthless, those moments, those days when writing feels like an uphill battle–that’s where you forge your strength as a writer. It’s in the act of showing up, day after day, even when the inspiration is nowhere to be found, that you cultivate the discipline and resilience needed not just to be a writer but to endure as one.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.