[YPRES, 1917. LIGHTS UP ON A MUDDY TRENCH. SOLDIERS ARE LYING AROUND POLISHING THEIR BOOTS, CLEANING THEIR ORDNANCE, AND READING "BASEBALL WEEKLY". ENTER ANDREWS, A RAW RECRUIT]
"Hello, soldier. What's your name?"
"Andrews, sir. Private Clayton Andrews."
"Andrews, eh? Nice clean-cut Canadian name. I'm Sergeant Quantrill; this is Corporal Borbon, this here is PFC Frascatore, and over there is Lance Corporal Painter."
"Hi there, rookie. You can call me Lance."
[SFX: LOUD CRASHING NOISE. QUANTRILL AND PAINTER TURN TO ONE ANOTHER KNOWINGLY]
"Second deck?"
"Uh huh."
"Rodriguez?"
"Uh huh."
"So, Sarge: what's it like at the front?"
"I won't kid you, son. It's hell out there. They've got mortars, artillery, cannons, howitzers and a tight strike zone. We don't stand a chance."
[SFX: LOUD CRASHING NOISE]
"What was that? Martinez?"
"Not sure."
[SFX: LOUD CRASHING NOISE]
"That was Martinez."
[SUDDENLY, A VOICE PIPES UP FROM THE BACK]
"I am mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it any more! When the going gets tough, the tough get going! There is no 'I' in team! Give me the ball, Sergeant - I'll show those latte-drinking, grunge-listening [deleteds] a thing or two!"
[STORMS OUT]
"Who was that, Sarge?"
"Private Munro. A brave man."
[SFX: CRASH]
"A foolish man."
[SFX: CRASH]
"A dead man."
"Well, what do we do now?"
[ALL EYES TURN TO PRIVATE ANDREWS]
"Oh, no. Not me. I'm not going out there!"
"You have to, son. We've all got sore arms. Right, boys?"
"Ow!"
"You bet, Sarge!"
"Oh, the pain!"
"But... I'm only 21! I'm too young to die!"
"Private Halladay was only 23 when he went out there. Private Carpenter was only 24, and Private Escobar was only 24, and you didn't hear them complain, now did you?"
"But what happened to Private Halladay?"
"Well, er... he's dead."
"And Private Carpenter?"
"Dead, too. A shot in the elbow, I'm told."
"And Private Escobar?"
"He fired one shot, and they killed him while he was reloading."
"See? It's suicide! You can't make me go. You can't!"
[AN UNNOTICED FIGURE GETS UP FROM THE CORNER]
"Son, you appear to be labouring under a misapprehension."
"Oh, oh. You've woken up Private Koch. He won't like that."
"Son, you're right. If you go out there, you might very well get killed."
[SFX: CRASH]
("Buhner? I didn't know he was still here!")
"But if you don't go out there, son, I'm going to kill you."
"A Tommy John Mark III! I didn't know those were legal in this country!"
"The choice, son, is entirely yours."
[SPOTLIGHT ON PRIVATE ANDREWS AS HE SOLILOQUIZES]
"At that moment, I realized that my days of childhood - frolicking on the green fields of Florida, Tennessee and upstate New York - were over. Now, I was a man - and sometimes, men have to do things they don't want to do, either because they have to face life as it is or... because they want to do what's right."
"That's beautiful, Private."
"You weren't supposed to hear that!"
"This is the Internet, son - there's no such thing as privacy. Now, off you go. Do us proud."
[PRIVATE ANDREWS DETERMINEDLY STRIDES OUT OF THE BULLPEN TOWARDS THE PITCHER'S MOUND, AS THE SOUNDTRACK MUSIC SWELLS TO A CRESCENDO. CUT TO ALEX RODRIGUEZ, HOLDING AN AK-47]
"Oh, goody. Fresh meat."