The young soldier stood alone, the white flag heavy in his bloody hands. He had been entrusted to send a message to the advancing enemy as their depleted regiment could go no further.
Surrender was their only possible option.
But tragically he was too late. The massacre had already begun, one that would ultimately claim his own life.
Over a century later a ceremonial flag sits atop the same ridge. Even on the calmest of days, it still flutters in the nonexistent breeze as if moved by unseen hands.
An eternal tribute from the restless ghost of a fallen soldier.
The Weekday One Hundred 